


The Watford Diaries

by CanadianSnow (ShelbyCelina)



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow series - Gemma T. Leslie
Genre: Alternate Canon, Boys In Love, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magic, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-08-16
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:42:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7101811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShelbyCelina/pseuds/CanadianSnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon Snow hates his vampire roommate more than merwolves. He's evil, and plotting, and is constantly trying to kill him.</p>
<p>Baz Pitch can't believe he got stuck with Snow as a roommate. He's an idiot, and pathetic, and everything he's ever been told to hate.</p>
<p>Told from both perspectives, The Watford Diaries is a small look into both boys lives as they grow up together sharing a room. </p>
<p>UPDATE: On hiatus, not sure if I will be able to finish this one. This is mostly short stories that don't really build off each other until the last few chapters. (That was my downfall! Trying to make a logical plot leading into the canon timeline with non-canon elements).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Year One: The Crucible Ceremony

**Author's Note:**

> Many of the events throughout are mentioned in Carry On, and I've tried to keep it as canon as possible. I have rearranged some timelines, and expanded or changed a few things (such as giving Simon his sword in first year when I'm pretty sure he doesn't have it until later in Carry On). The biggest divergence from the canon timeline happens in Year 6 :).
> 
> As always, all of these lovely characters and story ideas belong to Rainbow Rowell. I also have a section from Fangirl in Year 5.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy :)

**Year One:**

**SIMON**

I stand nervously in the Courtyard waiting to feel the pull of the Crucible. I _can_ feel the magic; I know it’s here. It’s old magic (or so the Mage says). There is a charge in the air and everyone seems a bit silly for it. People are giggling and moving their feet freely. A few people are trying to resist, trying to make a joke of it.

I don’t.

I stay very still, very serious.

I tell myself I belong here.

I feel nothing. Maybe the Crucible wasn’t expecting me? A burning metal smell fills my lungs, which makes me think _something_ was expecting me. I consider walking around, to encourage the magic to find me, but I don’t want to risk it. What if I accidentally run into someone and they think I’m supposed to be their roommate? The Mage made it very clear this is a sacred ceremony, one steeped in tradition, one we aren't supposed to muck up. 

_Finally_ I feel it, a hot pulling in my stomach. It must be it? I don't have much ( _any_ ) experience with this sort of thing, but I can't think of anything else that would be making me like this. I lean forward slightly and my feet start to glide. I keep my eyes open, looking around, trying to see someone else coming towards me. It feels like I’m the only one left without a roommate.

A boy with raven hair comes into view. He’s moving slowly, like he’s trying to resist the Crucible’s pull without anyone noticing. He’s small, his thin frame prominent in a black suit that looks like it was specially made for him. I begin to panic. I worry we were supposed to dress up for the ceremony. Not that I own a suit - my faded blue jeans and red t-shirt are all I brought with me - but I still think the Mage should have told me other kids were going to be so... _formal_. Only when I look around I realize it is just him. This small boy with dark hair and a fancy suit. Everyone else is wearing regular kid clothing. I decide that's all right, though. Perhaps this boy will be a little different. I'm a little different too. I know he must be my roommate when I feel another jerk in my stomach, my feet shuffling in his direction.

I smile at the boy and wave to him.

He frowns.

I haven’t made any friends yet. In fact, I haven’t met anyone besides the Mage. I was in his office all day, learning about magic and mages. It was a lot to take in. I spent most of my time trying to keep my mouth from hanging open in wonder. The Mage kept asking if I had any questions, but I could only shake my head and say, “No, Sir.” He wants me to call him Sir, which is something else for me to remember. I’ve never been to a school where you address staff as Sir or Professor. I didn’t tell him this. Or tell him that most of what he said made no sense to me. I’ve been trying very hard not to say anything stupid.

Although I wish the Mage had let me explore the campus. This is my first time being around so much magic. I can feel the energy from other people. It’s overwhelming at times. Especially when I start to think about how strange it is than I've gone my entire life not understanding that I’m made of magic. Everyone else already looks bored, like they've felt magic like this before. I don't think I'll ever get bored of feeling _other_ people's magic. I'm not so keen on my own magic; powerful, untidy, smoky. That’s how it feels to be me.

The pull forward stops once I’m face to face with my new roommate. I extend my hand, eagerly. It’s not just the magic dragging through me, I'm properly excited. I’ve never had real friends before. I’ve never shared a room where I felt safe. Group homes aren’t like campus dorms (I hope, anyway). You don’t make friends. You make allies who may or may not step in when you get the shit kicked out of you. Watford is different. I don’t need to punch first here. I don’t need allies. I can have friends.

My muscles start to ache as I keep my arm firmly outstretched. I wiggle it a little, bouncing on my toes, hoping the other boy will get the hint.  He raises an eyebrow at my jerking arm. “Snow,” he says carefully.

I beam. “Yeah! Hi!”

I expect him to extend his own hand. He doesn’t.

“The Mage’s heir,” he adds dryly.

I suppose I am? But, he doesn’t make it sound like a good thing, so I don’t want to admit to it. Honestly, I haven’t given it much thought yet.

I shrug.

He stares at me with an intensity that makes me blush. His eyes remind me of rain, and deep waters, and something forceful. A hurricane.

I can see him fight through the pull of magic. I don’t know how he’s doing it. My own arm is burning, my insides clawing, desperate for the connection to be made.

“Simon Snow,” I say (rather stupidly) as I wave my hand at him.

“ _Snow_ ,” he repeats. He grabs my hand moments before I’m sure my insides are about to combust. I sigh in relief, feeling the pressure stop. All that’s left is a cool tingling running through my hand and up my arm.

“Do you feel that too? Is it normal? Is it the bond?” 

I’m excited. He’s not. He doesn’t say anything. He gives me a look like I’m yammering utter bullshit. I blush again.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He arches his eyebrow again. They are as dark as his hair. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a boy with eyebrows like his. Neat, smooth, intimidating as hell. His lip curls. “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch.” He drawls out each syllable. His accent is _definitely_ posh, just like his name (it’s also a little terrifying). I roll through the sounds on my tongue. It’s a literal mouthful.

I look to him and he’s smirking. “A bit thick are we? It’s not _that_ hard to say.”

But it is.

It’s sharp and spitting. And now that I think about it, _fitting_. I’ve known him for all of twenty seconds and he’s already called me stupid.

I sigh, “Don’t you have a nickname?”

He grimaces. “I should hope not.”

“Like Ty, or somethin’—”

“ _Not_ unless you want me to set your bed on fire.”

I squeak. We’re still shaking hands and I feel the surge of his magic. It’s an angry grease-like burn licking up my arm. My own magic pushes back; only I’m not really sure how to control it yet. It does stuff like this sometimes. He pulls back his hand abruptly, looking a bit unnerved.

I smile.

“ _Baz,_ ” he spits out severely.

“That’s what I can call you?”

“ _Yes_.” His voice is strained and forced. (Maybe my magic made him tell me his name? Or the Crucible? I don’t know enough about these things).

“Wicked! Nice to meet you, Baz,” I offer politely.

He shakes his head, and then he bloody walks away from me. He doesn’t bother with a reply. He doesn’t ask if I want to go to dinner together. He already hates me, I’m sure of it. I’m just not sure what I’ve done.

As I head to dinner alone, listening to everyone else making easy friends with their new roommate, I decide I might need to re-evaluate my stance on not punching first anymore.

 


	2. Year One: Family Brunch

**Year One:**

**BAZ**

My entire family comes to the Family Brunch in September. Watford hosts one every year after the first week of classes. Mostly, the dining hall is filled with first years still getting over their separation anxiety.

I’m a bit embarrassed Daphne has brought everyone. Including Mordelia, even though she’s making a dreadful ruckus over spilled pudding. (Mordelia takes the terrible twos to a new level. She’s like that, stubborn, brash, and clever as a fox. It’s an awful combination that makes me extraordinarily proud. Though, if she weren’t my sister I would probably throw her down a well).

Fiona is here too, with some Normal bloke she has spelled stupid. He looks like the embodiment of 90’s grunge. Father is pissed about it, and Daphne is trying to keep the peace. Everyone is miserable. It’s a whole thing... and _so_ typical. I try not to slouch as I pick at my scone. I would rather be studying.

“So, Basil,” Father says. I’m only half listening. “How are the other mages?” He’s not asking after their well-being. He wants to know where his son sits among the pack. I’ve already determined potential competition for top marks. It certainly won’t be Snow, which will be an immense relief to Father. However, there is a small possibility Penelope Bunce will be a worthy challenger. She seems half-intelligent and rather powerful for our age.

I say this.

Fiona snorts through a sip of tea. “Really? A Bunce? Well fuck me! Martin was about as magical as a fucking numpty when I knew him.” Daphne frowns. I know she finds Fiona unapologetically vulgar (which is one of the things I love most about my aunt).

“She seems relatively competent with her magic,” I say.

“Must be Mitali,” Daphne offers, while wiping at Mordelia’s face with a napkin. It starts a new wave of screaming.

“And the heir?” Father asks casually.

“ _Malcolm_ , not now. We’re here to see Basilton.” Daphne smiles warmly at me, one hand still ferociously scrubbing at Mordelia’s chocolate stained face. I grimace slightly. I wish she wouldn’t call me that. Or pretend to be on my side. It isn’t fair of me that I find interacting with her so exhausting. Daphne is perfectly agreeable, she always has been. Even now, as my stepmother, she’s always agonizingly conscious of not 'over-mothering'. It’s clear she respects my mother’s memory, something I can never seem to properly express my gratitude for.

“The heir to what?” Fiona’s boyfriend asks. He’s got a mouth full of sausage. We all stare harshly at him. Chad (or Todd or something equally horrid I’ve already forgotten) has the sensibility to look uncomfortable but not enough intelligence to figure out why.

“The _heir_ to the World of Mages,” I tell him. “Haven’t you heard of Simon Snow? He’s going to save us all— mages, that is.”

He looks at me blankly.

“We’re wizards, mate. A whole room of us.”

He still stares at me, stupidly, with his mouth half open. He’s a bit of a minger. I sigh and feel the sparking in my fingers as I light a small flame in my palm. I don’t even have to think about it, it’s like blinking. Fire magic is the most natural thing about me — which isn't saying much when you really think about it.

Finally, something connects in his thick head and he gasps, his eyes wide, choking on his poorly chewed sausage.

“ _Basil_ ,” Fiona hisses.

“ _Basilton_ ,” Daphne yelps. She gets nervous when I do this, even though I’m always in complete control.

I smirk and extinguish the flame with a quick, **“Make a Wish!”** My mother made sure I knew the incantation for extinguishing fires even before I could use magic.

Fiona glares at me, no doubt thinking terrible thoughts. She once said my mother should have dropped me in the river as a baby, that I’m destined to break hearts and start wars. I smirk more. Serves her right for bringing him here. She whispers something to Chad (Todd? Brody?). He smiles sweetly, forgetting I’ve said anything about magic at all.

I’m sipping my second cup of tea, listening to Fiona drone on about some herbal substance, when Snow walks into the room. I straighten in my seat. I feel him before anyone else. I notice the slight temperature change, the nervous energy, the sudden gravitational pull in his direction. A week in the same room with him and his magic is as familiar as my own.

The room goes silent.

Heads turn.

Father and Fiona share a look.

“He’s awfully thin,” Daphne whispers, like she’s worried about him (which is what I mean about her being exhausting).

He’s walking straight toward the serving tables, with a determination on his face that I haven’t seen him enact on anything but food thus far. He hasn’t noticed the entire room is humming with talk of him. Or, maybe he has and he just doesn't care. Snow is as thick and as brash as they come.

“What a fucking joke,” Fiona laughs.

I couldn't agree more.

He grabs a plate and starts loading it with scones. The brunch is _technically_ for families. No other student would dare to come in alone, and I know Snow doesn’t have anyone here today. We all know about the group homes. Although, I was curious if maybe _someone_ would show up. Even just a crazy woman claiming to be his long-lost mother for the thrill of it, some people get off on that sort of thing. Snow grabs a second plate and loads it with sausages. He scans the room once, resting his eyes on mine for a second too long for it to be coincidence, and then juts his chin and leaves the same way he came. I should report him. You’re not supposed to the take the plates out of the dining hall.

“Cheeky little shit, isn’t he?” Fiona says while tossing a piece of toast at me.

I blink.

“And _not_ a very skilled mage,” I add.

“Good,” Father mutters. “It will make everything easier.”

My family leaves after the dining hall is cleared of food. They don’t stay for the campus tour. Pitches and Grimms have been coming to Watford for centuries. My own mother used to be Headmistress here, and I spent the first five years of my life playing in her office (the Mage’s office now) and napping in the nursery. The nursery doesn’t exist anymore. They closed it off after the attacks, which is probably for the best. Magic tends to go a bit askew in places where someone is murdered. She _was_ murdered. No one will ever admit that. But, she must have been. I don't remember much.... I sort of passed out.  Only that one minute she was alive and the next she wasn't, and it was a vampire's fault. I would call that murder.

“You’re our spy, Basil,” Father reminds me as he pats me on the back. “We are _very_ lucky you got Snow as a roommate. We need information.”

Daphne kisses me goodbye.

Fiona punches my arm.

Mordelia pouts and pulls at my hair when I try to hug her.

I head back to Mummers House almost immediately. I’m exhausted.

Snow’s already in the room, two empty plates sitting on his desk, crumbs across his bed. He’s asleep, his body curled into a tight ball. This entire week he’s been acting like he’s on bloody holiday, like he’s never experienced a better place than Watford. I watch him for a few minutes before I crawl onto my own bed and face away from him. As I drift into sleep part of me wonders if my family came here just to see Snow. Another part wonders if they rigged the Crucible, because I don’t feel as though I lucked out with my roommate at all.


	3. Year One: The Red Ball

**Year One:**

**SIMON**

“Can you stop?”

“Stop what?” I ask, even though I already know what he is going to say. I throw my red bouncy ball harder against the wall so it makes a satisfying _thud_ before it comes sailing back to me. I grin to myself.

Baz slams his hand against his open textbook. “Stop tossing that insufferable thing against the wall.”

I look at him, expecting to see him glaring from his desk. Instead he’s facing away from me, his hands moving through a series of wrist placements designed to increase your accuracy with spells. I guess it's not really surprising that he won’t even stop practicing to tell me to knock it off. Baz has made it very clear how little he thinks of me. The most annoying part is that he doesn’t even _need_ the practice, he’s bloody perfect at casting already. I bet he reads ahead in the textbook too.

Technically, I have the same homework; practicing flowing through hand and wrist movements... I’m just not doing it. By choice. It’s not like they can check if you practiced. Besides, I can’t practice with Baz in the room. He watches me and then makes some little noise of disapproval every time I do something wrong (which, according to him, is always).

If Baz and I had a better relationship I would ask him for help. Not only can he do the proper positions in his sleep but we both have wands, so we use the same textbook. Each instrument has its own guide. Neither Penny nor Agatha have wands, otherwise I would practice with them. Penny's instrument falls into the rings and bracelets category, and Agatha's is technically a pocket item. Our year is fairly well divided in terms of instrument use, minus Gareth. The professors all had to band together and make a special textbook for his belt buckle.

I do try on my own. And I want to do well, because I’ve never been very good at anything, especially school. I thought it was because I didn’t belong in the Normal world and that’s why maths problems never seemed to make sense to me. But, I don’t seem to be doing much better at Watford. I’m _supposed_ to be fantastic at this— that’s what everyone keeps telling me — I’m the _Chosen One._

Merlin, I hate being called that.

I feel the expectations every time someone says it. Even worse, I feel their disappointment when I fail to measure up. And I’m always failing. I’m barely passing _Introduction to Common Spells_ , which everyone knows is an easy first year course. It’s designed to make you feel good about yourself, to boost your confidence as a mage. It makes me feel like rubbish. Just yesterday Professor Trainor said to me; “Simon, our natural leader, show us how to use **stand your ground**.” In theory, it should have been easy. I said the words and threw my wrist just so, exactly like I had seen Baz do a million times. Only nothing happened. My partner stepped forward and everyone laughed. And then I fudged it all up even more. I was so mortified I accidentally made the room fill with smoke. And it _was_ an accident. Even though Baz will say differently. I caught him telling Dev (his giant of a cousin) that I was throwing a tantrum and trying to burn down the room. Which makes zero sense, because why the heck would I try to burn down a room while still standing in it?

Anyway, it was embarrassing, especially because Baz can do the spell. He spent the rest of yesterday spelling my feet to the ground every time we crossed paths— which was exactly four times. Each time he made it look effortless. He even managed to keep that insufferable smirk on his face the entire time.

_“That’s how you do the spell, Snow.”_

_“I know_ how. _"_

_“If only you knew the counter spell.”_

I didn’t have anything clever to say, so I had silently glared at him as he walked away cackling. I spent the better part of my day frantically trying to flag people down to help me. (For the record, I do know the counter spell. It’s **Shake it out.** I just couldn’t get the bloody wrist movement right).

So, I should be practicing. Tonight I gave up after I managed to smash my arm into my wardrobe while doing a _prise de fer_ with my wand- it’s a standard starting position in a duel.

Baz had snorted, and then said, “What the hell are you doing, Snow? This is magic, you need _finesse._ Not blunt wand movements.” (His accent sounds about ten times more stuffy when he's criticizing me.) 

I was going to tell him a _prise de fer_ is a fencing pose, and therefore, very _finesse_ - _y._ Same with a _liement_ position. Only, I knew he would give me a look of disbelief and question how I could possibly know anything about fencing. It’s not worth the effort with him sometimes. I always come out feeling stupid. So I started throwing my ball against the wall.

I keep tossing the ball.

“Snow, I said stop it.”

I ignore him.

“Enough!” He shouts at me. He grabs for his wand and I try to scramble for mine.

I get to my feet, searching between my sheets. I’m sure I left it on my bed. “Anathema,” I urgently call to him as I try to locate the one thing I probably should never lose track of.

He rolls his eyes. “I know, you dolt.” He flicks his wrist and points his wand to my ball: **“Into thin air.”**

I stare at the spot where my ball just was. It’s gone. I shake out my sheets, my wand clattering to the floor. I _need_ the ball. I throw my pillow onto the ground. I shove my hands between the mattress and the wall. I can feel the sweat starting on my forehead. I get down on my stomach and look under the bed.

“Bring it back!” I shout.

I jump back to my feet and turn to glare at Baz.

He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, smirking with his palms open in a dismissive gesture.

“Baz, come on, bring it back!” I say again.

He shrugs. “I told you to stop.”

“Please, the ball…just—”

His eyes go wide and he stops leaning on the chair. I can feel my magic settling uncomfortably at the surface of my skin.

“Snow, it’s only a ball," he says slowly, carefully.

“It’s _not_ … it’s… I…umm…”

My words get lost. It’s not _just_ a ball. It’s my one good thing. It could have been hers. I’ve had it since the day I was left at the orphanage. My skin heats up and I cross the room to open the window. It’s too hot in here, and Baz is looking at me like I’m mental. I’ve felt like this before. I keep pacing the room, trying to dispel some of my energy.

Baz starts to look a bit sick.

“Snow,” he warns.

“The ball, Baz. The bloody ball— just bring it back!” I take a deep breath and the air gets stuck in my throat. I drop to my knees and feel the compression start on my chest. Oh Merlin, this isn’t good.

“Snow—I can’t. The spell, it doesn’t work like that.”

I glare at Baz and feel my magic pour from me. I couldn’t stop it now even if I tried. He grips his wand tighter. I don’t bother picking mine up as I run from the room. I stumble down the stairs and out the door. I sprint towards the wall that surrounds the grounds.

 **“Over, over, over!”** I yell.

I jump and land on the other side of the moat. I don’t stop. I don’t think about the impossibility of what I’ve just done. I keep sprinting into the Wavering Woods. I don’t stop running until I’m thick into the trees, until I’m sure that if I were to go off nothing would happen to anyone but me.

 _It’s just a ball_ , I tell myself.

_Probably not even hers._

_I can get another from a bloody vending machine._

_It’s nothing._

_I’ll have other good things._

I tell myself this over and over as I press my fists harder into my stomach.


	4. Year Two: Basket Case

**Year Two:**

**BAZ**

It took me exactly one week in first year to realize I’m the most talented mage here.

Sure, Snow has power, but he doesn’t have skill or control, and I’m confident I could out cast him any day.

I’m top of almost every class. Bunce has me on a few, but I’m not counting her as real competition. She _is_ brilliant, I’ll give her that. But, she’s also friends with Snow (a blustering hazard on a good day). They are best friends actually, if you believe in that sort of drivel. So I know her brilliance will eventually tap out, and Snow will start to drag her down to his level.

Snow’s a dragger, and Bunce, like everyone else, isn’t immune to the enticement of his magic.

Plus, I’d like to see her try an incantation in French or Greek. I doubt anyone else in this entire school can cast flawlessly in four languages. I can even do Latin, although most of the spells are dead now. It’s hard to cast _**absit omen**_ when no one else in the room understands what you’re saying. It’s a shame, because it’s a rather useful spell that calls for protection against evil. Snow could probably find a situation or two for it.

Bunce and Snow are both in the Courtyard today. _Practicing_ , if you can call it that, which I wouldn't. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe Snow practiced at all... or even tried, really. He's alarmingly rubbish at spell work. I have to walk past them to get to the front gates and out onto the pitch. Unfortunately, my mother is no longer Headmistress here, which means the planning of the grounds has gone a bit to waste. There is only one way over this ridiculous moat, and I blame the Mage for having to walk past Snow butchering simple spells on a daily basis. It gets bloody depressing after awhile. The moat isn’t even necessary anymore. It hasn’t been necessary since the battle of 1604 (and it certainly did shit all to keep the vampires out). All it does is house bloody merwolves.

I hear Bunce sigh as she moves Snow’s wrist to a proper casting position. I’m tempted to tell her she’s wasting her time, that her approach with Snow won’t work, because he’s too bloody thick for conventional education. Snow, regardless of what anyone else believes, is aloof. And not in a cold, detached way— he’s just oblivious. I swear if I cracked open his head nothing but crumbs and clouds would come tumbling out. He lacks the ability to say what he needs, or wants, or what he is thinking. It’s why he can’t cast a bloody spell.

What he needs is someone to pull him out of his own arse, and Bunce is _not_ the person for the job. If I were more charitable I might offer to help. I have a feeling I could get him to cast properly. But, it wouldn’t be in my best interests to make Snow adequate with magic. There is a very good chance my name is somewhere on the Mage’s list of 'corrupt' wizards (anyone with a respectable bloodline is on his list). Snow is his weapon. If I taught Snow how to control himself I would be arranging my own death.

Bunce sighs again. “Simon, you need to know the origin of the spell to use it correctly. You can’t just bloody shout **basket case** and hope it will work.”

I slow down. It’s a risky spell even for Bunce, I'm not sure why she thought it was something Snow could handle. The magical community loves idioms (most idioms are spells, or can be). **Basket case** , a particularly nasty offensive spell, is used to make your opponent powerless or ineffective. Essentially, the spell twists and pulls at someone’s nerves and anxieties, until they are reduced to a trembling heap.

Snow’s not paying attention to when Bunce is saying, because he has the brain power of a newt. He yanks at his hair and then tilts his head side to side. He stretches, like he’s warming up for a sprint, and not for magic. The Courtyard is a terrible space for him to practice in; there are too many people and he’s too distracted. Which is exactly what I mean about Bunce not being a suitable teacher. This is where _she_ would perform best, somewhere to assert her cleverness over her classmates. Snow needs to be backed into an abandoned corner and forced to use his magic properly. He can’t be coddled.

Snow’s eyes finally find mine when I'm a few steps away. He presses his lips together in a tight line, which is more satisfying than it should be. He squints in distrust, or dislike, or both. I can never tell which with Snow. Likely both. I stop just behind Bunce and sneer at him for no other reason than to piss him off.

He glares.

Bunce stops talking and turns to look at me. “Can _we_ help you?”

“I’m not the one who needs help _,”_ I say. I tilt my head towards Snow.

“He’s doing just fine without you, _thanks,_ ” Bunce snaps back. She’s fiercely loyal to Snow. I have no idea what she gets out of the friendship, besides the opportunity to feel drunk on his magic more than the rest of us. There are deluded mages who would sell their soul for the chance to feel Snow’s power. Even if I had a soul I would never be so bloody foolish.

Snow is still glaring at me like _I’m_ the Humdrum. Honestly, it’s not even hard to torment him. He gets worked up over everything.

I let out a sharp laugh. “Bunce, if _this,”_ I gesture to Snow _, “_ is fine, you may want to reevaluate your career choices. A poor teacher is nothing more than a poor mage.”

Bunce rolls her eyes and waves me away with her hand. “You’re not even worth it.”

She’s not being particularly malicious, but I take the bait anyway. “That would mean more coming from someone else,” I retort, watching smugly as Snow’s face grows red.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks. His voice is filled with all the suitable outrage of a hero, he’s always playing the bloody hero.

I smirk and let my words drawl out casually. Snow says I sound like a posh git when I speak. I don’t, I just don’t sound like a bloody Chav. I add a hint of superiority to my intonation just for him. “Even you, Snow, should know that some surnames hold more value than others. A Bunce is about as valuable as a pence. And a Snow is _vastly_ overvalued— although I only know the one.” I raise my eyebrow at him and wait.

“You’re such an arsehole!” Snow shouts at me as he lifts his wand. He’s too slow, my wand is already in my hand as he fumbles to hold his correctly. It’s excruciating to watch.

“And you’re a **basket case.** ” I project my voice, feel my magic course hotly through me.

Snow’s face twists with pain. It’s my magic. I know it burns. It shouldn’t bother me, but something inside me feels uneasy watching Snow grit through the discomfort. Of course, it only gets worse when the spell starts to work. Snow’s already frayed ends start to unravel. He lets out a groan and leans forward. Bunce throws out her arms to catch him. He ends up clutching tragically to her cape. My stomach twists more.

I don’t stick around; I start to walk away as soon as Snow’s loud sobs fill the Courtyard. Everyone stops to stare as he comes undone. I hear him mumbling nonsense about expectations and failure. I hear him begging Bunce for help. I don’t want to see Snow’s real anxieties. I can’t risk feeling sorry for him, because I need to hate him. My family has made that very clear.

I can’t feel guilty if I’m playing the villain— that’s how it works.

———

Snow doesn’t come back to our room until well after dinner. He’s quiet, but his eyes are red and his hair looks like he’s been pulling at it for hours.

He doesn’t say anything as he crawls into bed and turns off the light.

I feel the hallow pit of guilt in my stomach.

“All right?” I ask quietly.

His voice comes out raw. “Do you _always_ have to be such a fucking tosser?”

It shouldn’t make me laugh, but it does.

“Crowley, Snow— do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

It’s a rhetorical question. I only use it to point out his vulgarity. I don’t except him to answer or to say what he does.

“She’s dead,” he snaps coldly.

I hear him turn on his sheets. I know he’s done talking, that _we’re_ done talking. If we were both ordinary boys sharing a room I might say something. We might share our stories. But, we don’t.

Because Snow and I are anything but ordinary.

The pit in my stomach gets bigger.

I wait until I’m sure he is asleep, then I whisper my secrets warily into the darkness, like I don’t want the words to spill out too quickly.

I don’t want to make a mess.

“Mine too, Snow. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

I turn to face Snow's bed, something I only allow myself to do for a few minutes each night before rolling to face the wall. Even without the moonlight pouring over him I would be able to make out his features. He still sleeps in a tight ball, though sometimes that changes to more of a distressed sprawl if he starts to have a nightmare. His hair is spread across his forehead, uncharacteristically tame. He has a spot on his cheek, which fills me momentarily with glee, until I realize it doesn't really do much to make him look less like a bronze hero. Besides, he still has that damnable mole over his left eye. Crowley, I wish I could stop looking at it.

I sigh and turn toward the wall. My few minutes are up.

After two years of sleeping not much more than an arm's length from Snow, I know more than I care to admit, including his biggest secret, the one I haven't been able to tell my family. The one I'm certain would help them the most. Simon Snow doesn't _want_ to be the Chosen One.


	5. Year Three: Poisoned Scones

**Year Three:**

**SIMON**

I used to love a good prank, until I met Baz. He’s insufferable with his constant attacks on my personal belongings and me. But, he’s gone too far this time.

He should know to leave scones out of our…feuding. Or whatever it is. Just, he should know. He knows I love them. I don’t touch his stupid violin, or his pressed shirts. There are some things that are sacred— sour cherry scones being one of them.

After first year I declared Cook Pritchard’s scones were the greatest combination of butter and flour that had ever graced my mouth (and I’m a pretty excellent judge of pastries… and butter). I still haven’t found anything comparable. You could ask me to eat a frog and I would for a Watford sour cherry scone. (I wish I were kidding). (I would list other things I would do for a scone, but the frog thing has made me feel a bit queasy).

Baz knocks on the door to our shared bathroom. “Go away,” I grunt.

“Are you coming to football tryouts?” he asks politely.

I clench my jaw and refrain from trying to cast a spell through the door. The only one I can think of is **a taste of your own medicine.** It’s a bit horrid, and I’m not sure it would be worth the mess.

“Snow,” Baz says gently. “Should I wait for you? Coach Mac is only letting third years try out today.”

He’s being a perfect arse. The politeness is a ruse. It always is with Baz. He knows I want to go for the team. He’s trying not to laugh, but I can hear his poorly concealed amusement at my current predicament (which is sat on the toilet with a seriously uncooperative stomach).

“You poisoned me on purpose, you arse!” I yell. I try to keep my voice from shaking, he doesn’t need to know I’m crying in the loo.

“Snow—that is a _very_ serious accusation.”

“I can hear you laughing!”

“Shall I tell Coach you’re currently indisposed?”

“Tell him my roommate is a miserable prick who poisoned my bloody scones.” My voice breaks on the word scone, and I curse puberty and the hot tears sliding down my face all at once.

“Are you crying over scones?”

 _Bastard_. I start to shake, feeling my magic run through me. It’s boiling, desperate to be let out, but I’m not bloody going off on the toilet. Knowing my luck Baz would survive and he would make sure the headline in the magical record was something like: _Mage’s Heir Shat Himself to Death._

I take a deep breath as my stomach gurgles. I’ve been sitting on this toilet for at least twenty minutes, and honestly, it’s becoming a little much. “I’m crying,” I shout at Baz, “because my arse is on fire, and you fucking did it!”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard Baz laugh so hard.

“I bloody well did not, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to eat street meat?”

“Street meat? How could I have eaten street meat on campus? I thought you were supposed to be, like, smart.”

I hear him sigh. “Don’t say _like_. And, I saw you devouring those kebabs at lunch— they’re as rank as street meat, Snow. Everyone knows you don’t eat the kebabs.”

 _Shit._ I forgot about the bloody kebabs.

“ _Don’t_ say rank right now.”

I groan and press my fist into my stomach, willing my body to cooperate with me just this once. I _would_ eat a frog to be spared the embarrassment of this moment.

Baz doesn’t let up. “Besides, how would I know which scones you were going to eat? I couldn’t poison them all— I don’t have a vendetta against anyone else at this school besides you. Remember?”

The cackling again. He thinks he’s fucking hilarious.

“Shut up, Baz.”

He doesn’t.

“How did we ever luck out on _you_ as a Chosen One? Forget the Humdrum, I’ll just tell everyone your Achilles Heel is kebabs.”

I grunt in frustration, pulling at my hair. I don’t respond. He’s impossible.

It’s quiet for a few minutes, and I think maybe he’s already left. I relax my muscles only to have him gently knock on the door again.

“Seriously?” I exhale, exasperated. “Fucking go away.”

“Snow?”

“What,” I spit out. My stomach twists in pain. I don’t have time for this.

“Don’t worry about the tryouts, okay?” **—** His voice is calming, soothing. It’s believable. And for one single moment I think my roommate maybe isn’t so bad. That maybe Penny is right, he isn’t evil, only an elitist tosser, meaning somewhere deep down he’s capable of compassion. I think he’s going to offer to talk to Coach Mac for me so I can try out later (surely his family connections would allow it). Or maybe he will offer to use some of his 'superior' magic (his words, not mine) and fucking fix me. Instead, he finishes his thought with all the charm in his voice of a snake **—** “You wouldn’t have made it anyway. At least your current state saves you the embarrassment.”

I take off my shoe and throw it at the door while he laughs.

“Yeah, well, this is your toilet too, _so **—**_ ”

Thankfully, he shuts the door to our room before I can finish whatever fucking idiotic thing I was about to say.

This is, quite possibly, the worst moment of my life.

\---

**BAZ**

It wasn’t the kebabs. If Snow ever tried thinking he would realize I ate the same lunch as him. He was gawking at me enough that he _should_ have noticed. Only Snow isn’t observant, which made turning his tea into a laxative painfully easy.

I found the spell in one of Fiona’s notebooks. **_Better out than in_ — **_a great spell for the overconfident._

I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t at least try it on Snow. He could use a gut shot to his ego every so often— balance out the constant praise and attention.

I only feel a little guilty as I lace up my cleats. Snow actually isn't terrible at football. He likely could have made the alternate team, made his way to a starting position in a few years. I know he loves football too, always moaning about bloody Liverpool and how awful it was when _they_ (as if he is part of the team) lost Fernando Torres to Chelsea, even though he was basically a toddler when it happened. If I didn't know any better, I would say Snow fancies Torres. He gets a bit moony when he looks at pictures of him. Then I think I might be going a bit mad, and Snow is likely just jealous because he wishes he could be a footballer. 

The guilt pulls a little tighter against my ribs.

I really had no idea the spell would be so strong.

 


	6. Year Four: Unreliable Staircases

**Year Four:**

**BAZ**

He is doing it again. Staring at me with his stupid blue eyes, glaring so hard he would likely set me on fire if he wasn’t so inept with his own magic. Because he could— easily— if he spent half a second focusing he could end us all.

It’s probably a good thing he’s a fucking stubborn dolt.

I sigh, loudly, and turn my head a fraction of an inch. He sets his jaw and keeps his gaze steady. I lift the corner of my lip in a sneer. When he still doesn't back down, I let my book drop to give him a proper stare down. My breathing is quiet, but his chest is rising in heavy inhales. I know I have won as soon as I see that brilliant blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. 

I smirk.

His magic charges the air.

For a horrifying moment I worry he is actually about to combust on me. Instead he growls something inaudible and makes a show of grabbing his book bag.

“Something the matter, Snow?” I ask facetiously. I already know why he’s stomping around like a half-mad elephant. He pauses and clenches his fists at his side. I snort. Simon Snow is the definition of primal. His blue eyes flash anger and he exhales deeply. I wait until his mouth opens just slightly, on the verge of speaking, and then I add, “Use your bloody words Snow, I don’t have all day.”

I’ve got him.

He stammers, and blusters, and splutters. It’s a whole spectacle of embarrassment. It always is with Snow.

“I know it was you,” he blurts out.

I raise an eyebrow. “Care to be more specific?”

He shakes his head. “I can’t even—”

“Believe how incredibly incompetent you are at magic?” 

He glares, but doesn’t say anything as he huffs and stomps towards the door, his magic still pouring into the room. I spelled his laptop shut earlier today, and I know that’s why he’s pissed. That was the goal, to make him simmer with rage. There is something inexplicably satisfying in making him feel something I know is real. I have a theory about Snow. A theory that he’s told what he’s allowed to feel. He’s a pawn, nothing more than an instrument to be used. And I imagine, somewhere deep down inside, he enjoys what I do to him. His hatred for me might be the only real thing about his life.

And if I have to make him hate me, I might as well give him some sort of misguided and warped sense of gratification.

I follow him out into the hall.

“Come on, Snow. No need to throw a fit. I’m only speaking the truth.” I’m mocking him now, my lips curled in an awful way I know makes me look attractive _and_ despicable.

Snow turns on his heel, his face flushed, his lips wet from spit. “Who the hell fucked you up so badly that you’re like this? Your mother? Because Jesus, you’re so—“

He stops talking as my heart beats faster in my chest.

He knows, or I assume he knows, about my mother. And he’s right. Her death— it’s the centre of everything for me. But, we aren’t about to have a bloody moment over it. I inhale slowly, and I see his eyes dart to the left with fear.

 _Good_.

I want him to be afraid of me.

“ _Shit_. No, I’m sorry. I didn’t. I wasn’t…” he fumbles over his words.

“Thinking?” I raise an eyebrow at him and he looks away. “What a surprise. You never do. It isn’t hard to think, Snow. I don’t get why you don’t try it.”

He doesn’t react like I want him to. His face fills with regret, he softens his eyes as he tilts his head to look at me. It's that damn hero compassion, and I can’t stand it.

“ _Baz_ —“

“I don’t need your pity, Snow,” I snap at him.

He doesn’t stop looking at me like he cares that he’s upset me.

I don’t want him to know he _can_ upset me.

“Baz,” he whispers cautiously.

He’s too close. I can feel his breath on my neck; warm and demanding, just like the rest of him. I go to take a step back, but he reaches out his hand for me, because he can’t ever use his bloody words. He’s used to people wanting to be around him. He’s used to grabbing, pointing like a ruffian, having everyone rejoice when he manages to finger-paint without blowing up the school. He's used to people giving into his every whim, like he’s some fucking god.

He should know better with me, because I’m _not_ people.

I’m not even a _person_.

“I would think wisely about your next move, Snow.” I fill my voice with venom, I let the words come out on a slow exhale.

He hesitates. Malice is radiating from every fiber inside of me, my vulnerability turning into something callous. He might have picked up on this if he weren’t so fucking stubborn. If he weren’t always so pointlessly fucking brave. He moves past his hesitation, and then his burning hand is touching my shoulder.

It's a mistake.

I swiftly grab his wrist and twist it away from me. His eyes lock onto mine.

“Baz, please. I—“

I don’t let him finish. I twist his wrist further. He grunts and without hesitation rams himself forward into me. His shoulders hit me across the chest like a sack of bricks. I shove him backward, but he wraps his arms around my shoulders and drives his knee into my kidney. It hurts more than I anticipate. I realize, rather belatedly, Snow has done this before. I've underestimated him, and without risking giving away my _condition_ , he might actually have the advantage in hand-to-hand combat.

I can feel his magic start to spark, the thickness of it settling in my mouth. I need to get him off me before he goes off. Or before he gets another knee to my kidney in. I can feel my fangs, sharp and desperate, pushing against my gums with each rush of pain.

“Snow, fuck off,” I pant as I try to shove him away. But, his centre of gravity is lower than mine. Snow’s like a fucking bull when he needs to be. He’s bloody unshakable.

We keep pushing against each other, me hissing, him grunting, knocking into walls. When I catch Snow by the wrist again, he releases me without warning. “Wait—“

I take advantage and drive my fist to connect with his ribs.

The blow sends him flying.

I had no idea he was so close to the stop of the stairs.

Or that he would fly backward instead of kneel forward.

Or that he stopped because I had already sprained his wrist. I had already hurt him.

Snow hits the first landing with a terrible, echoing thud. I stop breathing. He doesn’t move. It was easy, like he weighed nothing, like throwing a rag doll.

Crowley. I’ve done it. I’ve actually killed the Chosen One— on a flight of fucking stairs.

I start counting. How long before he’s officially dead? His silence is terrifying. Finally, as I mouth the number twelve he groans, and I exhale in relief.

“You’re bleeding,” I call down to him. I can smell it. He gives me a confused look, and then touches the back of his head with his hand— no doubt feeling a wet spot, spongy and thick with blood.

I could have killed him.

I feel sick as I calmly walk down the stairs and step over him. I don’t even offer to help him to his feet.

“Seriously?” He shouts to my back.

I ignore him. I keep walking to the Catacombs. I need to eat and throw up and cry. Not necessarily in that order. I know I’m the villain in his story. It’s my prophecy, my foretold destiny, as much as his is saving the World of Mages.

Only, I’m not even the real villain. I’m the practice for the real thing, and sometimes I wonder what the fucking point is.

What’s the point in having Snow hate me? In me hating him? What’s the fucking point.


	7. Year Five: Baz's Breakdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, 5th Year. The Year both Simon and Baz are angsty, hormone driven, little shits. I love them.

**Year Five: November**

**BAZ**

I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t understand why I need to visit the Catacombs twice a day just to feel some semblance of normalcy. Everything is grating inside of me, my skin a collection of broken nerve endings. I’m thirsty, and hungry, and miserable.

No one told me anything about this— about puberty being a fucking nightmare as a vampire. In fact, no one told me _anything_ about being a vampire. But, I’ve gathered enough evidence to suggest sixteen is going to be a hellish year for my condition.  

My hormones are out of control. I worry _I’m_ out of control. My magic has been almost as unreliable as Snow’s, with my spells coming out more aggressively than I ever intend. Even fire has betrayed me lately. I catch my flame igniting in my palm at random. I never know how long I’ve been walking around with an open fire crawling up my arm before I notice.

And every fucking day I’m forced to share a room with Snow, the biggest aggravation of all. He’s got himself a bloody vampire relic now. A gift from Dr Wellbelove. A gold cross that sits just above his breastbone.

I felt the magic (it's ancient) the moment I walked into our room after summer break. Leave it to Snow to befriend someone who would bother giving him a ward against vampires. Dr Wellbelove doesn't even know I'm a vampire. That's just how the universe likes to fuck with me.

Snow was sprawled on his bed, flipping through a spell book, completely oblivious to how uncomfortable I was feeling. I tried to ignore it. I knew it was something on him. There was an unpalatable itching in my throat, a hum. It felt like a caution. I managed to unpack my jumpers before blurting out: “ _What_ are you wearing?” 

That got his attention. He practically bounced to a sitting position, all too eager. He thought he had caught me out. “Why?” Does it bother you?" He had picked up the cross with his thumb and index finger and held it toward me. He wasn’t showing it to me, he was testing me. "Agatha’s father gave it to me.”

I rolled my eyes and ignored my brewing curiosity on why Wellbelove’s father would give Snow anything. “Why would _that_ bother me?” I challenged. “I meant you smell repulsive, like a hospital and death. You shouldn’t be allowed to pick out your own cologne, Snow. This is nauseating.” I scrunched my face in disgust for good measure.

Snow had blushed. “They, uh, changed the soaps.”

I covered, but barely. It was pure coincidence (I'm not imprudent enough to mistake coincidence for luck). No one else even uses the Watford issued soaps besides Snow. I’ve never seen him unpack a single bathroom product. I suspect Bunce replaces his toothbrush for him. It’s a small miracle he smells as decent as he does.

He hasn’t brought up the cross again, but I catch him chewing on it sometimes. Or fiddling with it whilst we argue over something. I worry he doesn’t realize I can still kill him with that stupid fucking thing on. (If I feel so inclined).

Snow has also taken to following me into the Catacombs at night. His bravery is reaching new levels of stupidity this year. I can’t tell if he’s being so glaringly obvious on purpose, or if he actually thinks he’s capable of sneaking up on a vampire. He never takes the bloody cross off though, so even when he manages to stay half quiet I can still feel his presence. The rattling on my tongue.

It’s not just the Catacombs either. Every time I turn around he’s there, with his annoyingly simple face throwing another ridiculous accusation at me about plotting. (He did hit the nail on the head with the vampire theory quicker than I anticipated though. Only, no one believes him, which is beyond poetic for me).

That’s what pisses me off the most about him. That he’s _so_ simple. He’s supposed to be the fucking Chosen One, and he looks like he was cut from a template. He’s disappointingly ordinary. Right down to his choice of girlfriend.

Wellbelove and Snow.

What a sickeningly perfect couple. Golden, and bright, and _good_. I watched him stare at her longingly for two years, only I never thought he would have the courage to ask her out. Ask Snow to slay a Goblin and he doesn’t blink. Ask him to talk to a pretty girl and he turns into a fucking puddle of “ums” and “uhs.” Wellbelove is another cliché on his path to hero. Everyone found out at the Welcome Back Picnic. They came strolling hand in hand across the drawbridge to the Great Lawn, like it was their fucking societal debut. (I went to Wellbelove’s actual societal debut. She looked happier there than giving people fake smiles as they congratulated her and Snow).

That night was my first clue something was wrong with me. I watched Snow lean over to kiss Wellbelove’s cheek, and I wanted to scream. My insides were burning. I was furious. I wish it were because I wanted Wellbelove. Or because it was one more formulaic choice to hate about Snow. I couldn’t pretend it was anything but envy. I was envious of fucking Agatha Wellbelove.

Dev and Niall were on my side at least.

“What does she see in him?” Dev asked.

“She can do better,” Niall agreed.

“Someone who doesn’t think a Watford hoodie is dressing up,” I laughed.

Wellbelove heard me. She glanced at me, and I gave her a long look back. I waited until I could feel Snow staring, and then I winked.

It was horribly satisfying watching Snow’s face.

And now I can’t think of anything besides his face. I’m stuck thinking of his ordinary eyes, and ordinary hair, and ordinary grin. Then I have to excuse myself and go and drain ten rats.

I hate him.

Except, I don’t.

Which is entirely unacceptable on so many levels. Because he’s Simon Snow— the _worst_ Chosen One ever— he’s an idiot, and a puppet, and I _should_ hate him. According to my family he’s as terrible as the Mage. I _should_ want him dead.

Only every time I picture killing him it doesn’t work. I get close, my fangs ready to tear into his skin, and for a single moment I can picture how his blood would taste. I can feel the endless glory from my family at being the one to end the Mage’s reign. But then my treacherous heart is pushing that thought out.

Fuck glory.

I want to press my lips delicately to his temple, his nose, his chin, his pink mouth. 

I want to whisper soft things against his skin because Snow turns me into a fucking sap.

And his ordinary blue eyes make me feel like casting bloody sonnets.

And his ordinary hair is actually brazenly disastrous, and completely, unfairly lovely.

And his ordinary grin is a bit lopsided in the best possible way, and when he smiles he is criminally good looking.

And his freckles and moles— _crowley._

He’s not ordinary.

He consumes my entire existence, and I’m certain I’m slipping into madness because of it. Because when he’s looking at me, with his mouth open and his tongue on display, I want to tackle him. I want to take him to the ground and spit on his face, and then bite him, or kiss him, or both, and have him ask me to do it again.

I want _so_ many things.

I’m disturbed.

Which is Snow’s fault.

Because I’m hopelessly in love with him.

And now he’s out on the bloody pitch— my territory— with his shirt off like some barbarian playing a game of football. It’s torture watching the muscles in his back flex as he sprints. He looks like bloody fucking Achilles with his tawny skin glowing in the sun.

 _It’s not that hot out, Snow_ , I hiss mentally at him. You don’t always need to be on display.

Only I can’t stop looking.

And I hate his laugh, light and floating across the grass as he collides with Rhys.

And I hate his grin as Bunce looks at him like he’s the sun.

And I hate that everyone claps him on the back when he makes a shot that a troll could.

And I hate him because he’s so alive.

And then I see Agatha, sitting prettily on the sideline. I smirk, because I know how to take that obnoxious smile from his face.


	8. Year Five: Simon's Breakdown

**Year Five: November**

**SIMON**

It’s a great afternoon to be playing football. There isn’t a single cloud in the sky, and the air is warm with the nostalgia of summer.

I’m in a decent mood, even though it’s been a rubbish week. Actually, it’s been a bit of a rubbish term. Minus becoming Agatha’s boyfriend, I suppose. I never thought she would be interested in someone like me. Penny even told me it was a lost cause. She also said I was only interested because I thought I should be, because _everyone_ is interested in Agatha.

I asked her what the fuck that meant, and she looked at me like I was unbearably thick.

“Simon, what do you even talk about with Agatha?”

“We’re friends,” I had said.

Penny snorted. “Maybe, but not friends like us.”

“So? Do you want to date me?”

She laughed, like I had told her I was secretly a unicorn. “Of course not, you vain plonker. I only meant, actually, never mind. You do whatever you want, Simon.”

But, having Agatha as a girlfriend instead of a friend hasn’t kept me from struggling in my classes, and it hasn’t stopped the Mage from being a bit dodgy, or my magic from being unpredictable. The only difference is we hold hands, and sometimes kiss.

I run down the field harder, trying to push out my energy. Penny says my magic has been overflowing all week. She keeps asking me what’s wrong, but I don’t want to tell her. It’s embarrassing.

I’ve failed my first assignment at Watford, and I could fail the class if I don’t do better on my re-write (which I had to beg for). I can already see Baz’s face if he finds out I need to repeat a year. He would probably laugh himself to death. I’ve never _properly_ failed an assignment. Barely passing is different. Worst of all, it was my paper for Magical Creatures, a class I actually enjoy. Professor Xu handed our papers back, and mine didn’t even have a grade, it only had: Simon, please see me.

When I went to his office after class he asked me why I thought it was appropriate to write my paper on vampires given the Watford attacks. I told him I was going for thought provoking. (And a petty jab at Baz). I guess I missed the mark. Professor Xu said it was disappointing and distasteful, and his lecture left me feeling ashamed and disheartened.

I should be working on my re-write. But, something about playing football with my friends feels so cathartic. I forget about school, and the uneasiness I’ve been feeling all term. I momentarily give into normalcy.

Which is probably why Baz decides to show up. The tosser. It’s like he can sense when I’m finally feeling well adjusted, and he has to come striding in to fuck it all up.

He’s been an especially miserable prick this year. I have no idea what happened, but since last year he’s gone full evil (that’s what I’m calling it).

I don’t think we are going to survive this year as roommates. I’ve already asked the Mage to switch rooms. He shook his head at me like he couldn’t believe I would come to him about something so insignificant. “Simon,” he had said to me, “the Crucible is a binding agreement. You know this.”

I say fuck the Crucible.

Baz walks over to Agatha and slides onto the bench beside her. I fume. He wasn’t interested in Agatha until I became her boyfriend. It's more than a little worrisome. I mean, what if I'm the consolation prize because Baz hadn’t asked her out yet? He would be a better match. They’re both tall, and graceful, and know things about horses and regattas.

He leans back easily and lets one of his long legs drape over his knee. He’s wearing black fitted trousers and a grey jumper, even though it’s warm outside, and a bloody Saturday (seriously, who is he trying to impress?).

I regret my decision to play instead of sitting the game out with Agatha. If I were a better boyfriend I would have. She told me she couldn’t risk hurting her ankle. “I have dressage this weekend,” she said. It took me ten minutes to remember dressage is something with horses (Baz probably owns a bloody horse).

I send the ball flying out of bounds toward them on purpose. I hear Gareth curse at me. I wave him off and jog to the sidelines.

I can feel my magic vibrate in my fingers as Baz leans closer to Agatha. They don’t even notice me approaching. At the very least Baz should know I’m here— vampire senses and all that crap.

I’m about to say something to him, but Penny clears her throat behind me. Baz turns his head slightly and raises an eyebrow at me.

“Snow, might want to keep it in bounds next time. I hear the game works better that way.”

The prick.

I seethe, but I don’t say anything. I let his comment go. Not for his benefit. I let it go for Penny, because I promised her I wouldn’t get so worked up over things.

I kick the ball back into play and I try to forget about Baz. But, again, it’s like he knows when I stop thinking about him, and then he has to come sneering his way into my thoughts, demanding my attention.

He strolls into my path as Elspeth passes me the ball.

“Do you mind?” I hiss at him, stopping the ball between my feet.

I’m sweating, and breathing heavier than I want him to see. (I’m still bitter he’s on the football team). (And the star player). (Typical).

“May I join?” he asks, the corners of his lips turned up.

“Uh, no?”

“Is that a question?”

“No? I mean— no, you can’t join, Baz. You’ll likely try to take me out.”

“In your current condition?” He wrinkles his nose at me, and I have to fight the embarrassed flush I can feel creeping up my neck.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

He sighs. “Snow, you’re a mess. Killing you isn’t worth getting covered in your sweat.”

He smirks, and to anyone else it might seem like he was joking. But, I know Baz. He’s testing me.

Just this morning he spelled my shoes so the laces would tie together whenever I said _like_ — because he’s been pestering me about overusing the word since first year. I didn’t notice until Penny and I were in line for breakfast and I was loading my plate with scones.

“No one likes those as much as you,” she had laughed as I stuffed more into my book bag for afternoon tea. (Cook Pritchard only makes breakfast on Saturdays and Sundays. Every other meal is a free for all).

I shook my head. “Penny, I don’t _like_ scones. I _love_ scones.”

And even though it was a perfectly acceptable time to use the word I tripped on my next step, smashing my scones into my only clean jumper.

Penny figured out the spell.

I figured out it was Baz when I saw him laughing from his usual seat.

Baz stares at me. “Well? May I play?”

I hesitate.

“Let him play,” Agatha calls from the side of the field.

Baz waits patiently. He knows I’m stuck. If I say no everyone will assume it’s because I’m acting jealous. It will only be a matter of hours before the rumors start about a Snow-Wellbelove-Pitch love triangle. It will only encourage Baz.

“Fine,” I scowl.

Baz grins, a real smile that makes me feel apprehensive. “Excellent!” he shouts cheerily. My suspicion grows.

Before I can say anything else Baz is stealing the ball from between my feet and sprinting down the field. I stare at him, angrily, because there is no way I can keep up. He’s fast, and graceful, and completely ruthless on the field. He sends the ball flying hard at the net and scores on Rhys.

He turns to look at me and raises his insufferable eyebrow as if to say _your move, Snow_. I should have made him play on my team.

The next time Baz sends the ball flying I’m thinking about how he doesn’t even look hot in his jumper, and I’m dying of heat without a shirt.

Penny yells my name, but it’s too late.

The ball hits the side of my face with a resounding thump that vibrates through my skull— that’s how fucking hard he kicks.

“ _Oi_!” I yell to Baz as he jogs past me. “You did that on purpose!” My cheek is stinging and my eyes are watering.

Baz pauses and looks at me, his eyes are less intense than usual in the sunlight. A softer grey compared to his normal mix of deep navy and clover green.

“Not likely,” he says flippantly. He starts jogging again but then turns to face me, running backwards, smirking wildly, and adding, “Although you’re going to have one hell of a nasty bruise.”

I feel my magic swell uncomfortably. Maybe it’s my throbbing skull, or maybe it’s because Baz can run backward better than I can run forward, or maybe it’s because the mere thought of my face bruised seems to give him some perverse sense of joy, but something inside me snaps. I’m suddenly furious, and so fucking tired of Baz Pitch.

“What is your problem!” I shout to Baz’s back as I run to catch up with him. He whips around aggressively and I stumble. He catches my wrist just before my heels trip me. He holds my gaze, looking as angry as I feel.

“Watch yourself,” he hisses while releasing his grip on me. His fingers leave burning impressions on my skin. It’s the same wrist he twisted and sprained last year.

“Seriously, what’s your problem?” I lift my chin and square my shoulders. Baz’s gaze flickers over my stance and he rolls his eyes.

“You, Snow. Always you.”

“So you decide to send a ball flying at my head after I let you join our fucking game?”

“You didn’t _let_ me do anything. Also, for the record, the ball hit you in the head. I didn’t.”

“The ball _you_ aimed at my head!” I growl.

He looks to my hands, and I realize I have them clenched in fists. I release them and take a deep breath.

Baz rakes his fingers through his thick hair, like I’m exhausting his patience. “I didn’t aim for your head. But, even if I did, so what? That’s the game— didn’t you want to play on the team? Were you going to throw a fit every time your thick skull got in the way of a ball?”

I glare at him, breathing heavily. My cheeks burn, and I try to swallow my magic back down before I speak. I don’t need to accidentally lace my words in a spell again.

Last year, when Baz was being his methodical, maddening self as I tried to study I told him to **“get lost.”** He stopped talking and walked out of our room. I didn’t think anything of it, until he missed our afternoon classes, and I couldn’t find him for hours. Turns out I made **get lost** into a spell— and he literally got lost on campus. (I did find him eventually; he was wandering the halls in the abandoned astronomy building). (Okay, so Penny _technically_ found him using a locating spell). (Anyway, Baz was pissed).

“Agh— why are you so...so…so… _?”_ I trail off. I don’t know exactly what I want to say, just that I want to say _something_. He’s unbearable.

Baz sighs heavily. “Snow, words— _use_ them— they exist for a bloody reason.”

My magic sparks. I can feel it when it happens, when the dull hum turns into more of a vibrant crackle. I don’t like when it feels like this, like something fighting against me, instead of something I can control. Baz can sense it too. He takes a step back from me as the space around us starts to feel heavy, and a smoky scent hangs in the air.

“ _Snow,_ ” he warns.

It’s too late. My mind is racing, my chest tight as I try to get enough air. I feel hot. Too hot. Fuck him. Fuck everyone who has ever told me to use my words. Fuck the counselors and speech therapists. Fuck the Mage who just yesterday said to me: “You’re not as articulate as I would like, Simon. Words are important for our cause.”

Fuck words. Fuck articulation.

I stare down Baz. “ _Fine_ ,” I spit at him. “Here’s some words for you. You’re a fucking miserable twat and I hope you trip and break your god damn neck during your next game.”

“ _Simon_ ,” Agatha hisses behind me.

I exhale, suddenly becoming horrendously aware of my surroundings. I forgot about everyone else. I had been focused on Baz, my magic, my anger, my words, directed only to him. Too many sets of eyes are on me - Elspeth, Rhys, Gareth, Penny. I didn’t realize they had stopped playing. I didn’t even realize Agatha had left the side of the field. Penny gives me a look that I know means I'm letting him get to me. 

I look back to Baz, the bastard is grinning. I realize my mistake. I’ve played into his game— _again_.

I want to explain myself, but there’s no point. No one else understands, because Baz Pitch only seems to get off on torturing me— he gets under my skin like no one else and somehow I always come out looking worse than him.

My pride leaves a bitter taste in my mouth as I apologize. “Sorry,” I mumble. “That was out of line. I didn’t mean it, obviously.” It’s as good of an apology as he’s getting.

Baz lets out a sharp laugh and claps his hands at me. “Simon Snow, the bloody actor with a hero complex. You can’t let yourself say what you mean for a single second, can you? Say what you want to me — I don’t care. It means _nothing_ coming from you.”

Penny pulls on my arm as I clench my jaw. “Let it go,” she whispers to me.

Baz laughs again. “No, let him, Bunce. He might be less of a pitiful golden boy if he’s finally allowed to say what he thinks. Or, maybe you’re not capable of thinking?”

“Sod off,” I grunt.

He smirks. “Is that it? Is that why you _never_ say anything? Because you’re afraid people will finally realize how utterly moronic you are?”  

“I’m not stupid,” I cry. I’m too emotional. My voice is shaking.

“Crowley, Snow. I can see I’ve hit a nerve.” He’s gloating.

I growl at him as I step around Penny. “Simon,” she says. “He’s not worth it.”

“No. I’m done. I’m tired of him, Pen.”

Baz locks his eyes onto mine. “And I’m tired of you, Snow— tired of your misguided arrogance, because you have nothing to be arrogant about.”

I step closer to him. “I suppose you think you do? I suppose you think you’re so much better.”

“I don’t think I’m better, Snow. I _am_ better. You’re a nightmare of a mage, an absolute calamity. Everyone knows if it weren’t for your sidekick you would be dead already.”

Baz is seething. His chest is rising almost as heavily as mine. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this worked up. I imagine we look the same right now— both on the verge of bloody losing it.

My vision starts to blur.

“Penny isn’t my sidekick. She’s my friend. Not that you would know anything about that. You’re such a fucking insufferable prick that you only have lackeys.”

He snorts. “Crowley. If you think you have friends, you really are stupid. These people don’t care about you. They care about your magic. It’s all you’re good for, and you can’t even bloody use it properly.”

I shake my head. “That’s not true.”

Penny cuts in. “Baz, _enough_.”

“I’m not done,” he snaps.

This time I snort. “Of course not. Because you’re Baz Pitch— and you think the world should bend down to you. People hate you, you know that, right? And your family. Because you all walk around with silver spoons shoved so far up your bloody arses you probably get off on them.”

Baz goes oddly still as Gareth snickers behind me. I flush. I probably shouldn’t have said the last part. I don’t even know his family. Baz stares at me, unblinking and unyielding. His face is blank. I worry he has malfunctioned, some wire crossing inside him that is going to cause him to go full evil and drain me of blood.

When he speaks my entire body stiffens. His voice comes out terrifyingly calm. “Careful, Snow— it’s not wise to throw out insults about my family when yours didn’t even love you enough to keep you.”

My magic pours out in a flourish of rage. Penny curses at Baz, “ _Enough_. He’s going to go off.”

She’s pulling on me but I won’t budge. Baz doesn’t have a single line of regret on his face. He keeps his steel eyes on mine, daring me to lose control.

“Let him go off. Let the Chosen One burn us all.”

He’s mad.

He’s fucking mad.

“Come on, Snow. Let’s see it,” he taunts. “Show us what you have to offer, because this is it, just your defective magic. You’re not worth a single thing without it.”

My magic is reeling. Baz doesn’t waver. Penny’s told me before that when I’m angry my magic rams into her, that it makes her feel sick. Baz looks perfectly fine. It reminds me of the day the Crucible cast us together. When he resisted the pull of ancient magic. That’s how much he hates me.

He keeps talking. “Only you won’t go off, will you? You’re too weak. In a single word you’re inadequate. In everything you do. _Everything_ , Snow. Everything about you is inadequate. You’re a complete fucking dud— an embarrassment to your girlfriend, and to me, and the entire magical community.”

Baz exhales and raises an eyebrow at me. Perfectly arched in a way that makes his features even sharper. He’s vicious. I clench my jaw and stare back at him.

I’m vaguely aware of more people crowding around us, of Penny yelling something about schadenfreude, and everyone being despicable, of Agatha’s silence.

Let it go, I tell myself. Be better. They are just words, useless, pointless words.

Only, he’s right. And I hear his smooth voice as the word inadequate settles into my chest. I can’t cast a spell properly. I _do_ embarrass Agatha. I almost get Penny killed every year. I’m a hindrance. And I’m weak, because I can’t control the rage spreading through me. I can’t control myself around _him_.

Baz smirks. He knows.

I walk slowly toward him. He keeps the superior look on his face as his hand slowly reaches for his wand. I stop inches from him.

“This won’t end well for you,” he whispers harshly, his breath cold against my skin.

This time I smirk as I shift my weight backward. I use my legs to throw myself forward and I punch Baz Pitch in the face. He doesn’t anticipate it— for once, because he _always_ goes for magic first.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dropping to his knees, blood already pouring from his nose.

“Fuck,” I whisper back as I watch his face twist in pain. I didn’t mean to hit him so hard. I shake out my throbbing hand, still feeling the crack of his nose. I hate that it felt so good to finally punch him in the face.

“Simon?” Agatha cries at me, only her hands wrap around Baz’s shoulder instead of mine— didn’t she hear everything he said? Penny’s saying something to me, but I can’t hear her.

Other people are pushing around me.

Someone is yelling.

Someone is laughing.

Dev appears.

He’s lunging for me.

Penny’s magic hits me, thick and warm, sage and chocolate.

I shouldn’t have punched him.

Baz is reaching for me, a terrifying look on his face.

I get up, and I turn away from the chaos. Penny yells at me to go, so I run. I run towards the woods, ignoring everyone. Ignoring the hot tears sliding down my face. I don’t know why I do stupid shit like this. I keep running until my legs stop working and I collapse on the forest floor.

And then I scream as loud as I can.


	9. Year Five: Chimeras and Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a section at the end directly from Fangirl (It is a fanfic posting by Cath). Full credit to Rainbow Rowell :)

**Year Five: April**

**BAZ**

 

I slink down the hallways. It’s late, and if I get caught I will probably be thrown out.

I need to see Snow.

I tried to kill him, and then he covered for me. He could have had me expelled, or probably demanded for my execution. Instead, when the Mage asked how a chimera got so close to the grounds Snow had shrugged.

It was me.

I fucking lured one from the mountains. It took the better part of my Saturday, but I did it. And then I chained it to a tree and went to find Snow.

It was easy. It always is with him. I left him a note saying I wanted to meet by the Ancient Yew Trees. I told him I knew something about his parents, something had turned up in an old family diary.

It was such bullshit, and I thought he would see through it, because why would I need to meet him by a fucking tree to tell him anything?

I underestimated his stupidity, and I didn’t account for the misguided sense of trust he has built into him— he trusts too easily. Even me. Even after everything he fucking showed up.

He stood under those trees for an embarrassingly long time. It was pathetic, and heart wrenching, because who waits around for someone like that? Something inside me broke watching him anxiously pace around the thick trunks of the yews.

I was hiding in the maples, where I had left the chimera, and I told myself the note was trick enough, I didn’t need to also release a chimera on him.

Only, Fiona told me I was getting soft. She had been relentless all year that I should be doing more to weaken Snow.

 _“I pushed him down the stairs, didn’t I?”_ _  
“Last year, Basil. What have you done this year?_

I talked myself out of letting the chimera loose on Snow about a dozen times, only to talk myself back into it. This was Snow. It’s not like it was actually going to kill him. He would be fine, and my family would be happy. That’s why it took so long. That’s why he stood there for almost two hours. He waited as I debated if I really wanted to do this.

In the end the chimera decided for me. The goat head chewed through the chain (I’m embarrassed I didn’t secure a magical beast better). I was watching Snow, cycling through the pros and cons of trying to kill him when I heard the roar of the lion. I turned as the last of the chain was snapping between the goat’s strong jaws.

Stupidly, I ran toward Snow, because my impaired brain couldn’t think beyond him.

I was yelling, raving like a lunatic as I burst from the trees. Snow turned to look at me, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Realization struck him as the chimera came leaping into sight. He knew it was a trap, set by me, because a chimera would never wander down from the mountains without coaxing.

I could see his hatred for me. I could _feel_ it.

I didn’t have time to process anything further.

“Run,” I yelled at him. The chimera was roaring behind me, its snake tail floating through the yews, trying to get ahead.

Snow looked terrified. I was terrified.

“Fucking move”, I shouted.

He didn’t.

I slammed into him, and he went flying backward as the chimera lunged for us. I got caught under its massive paws.

“ _Baz_!” Snow yelled. He sounded pained. I was probably imagining the panic in his voice. Or misplacing it. It wasn’t because I was getting mauled. He was panicking because I had set a fucking magical beast on him.

I threw up my hands as claws dug into me. I screamed. I kept pushing up with my hands, trying to keep the chimera from piercing my heart (a shot to the heart will kill anyone, vampire or not). I was struggling, trying to kick at the snake that kept hissing at my feet, while pushing at the lion head.

And then the goat head dropped.

The fucking goat.

It was nuzzling at me, lipping at my clothes, and I didn’t have a free hand to shove it off. It nuzzled harder against my pocket, and then suddenly snapped its head up, satisfied in finding something. I looked up to see the goat happily rolling my wand around its mouth.

I was prepared to die.

Snow’s unreliable magic had other plans. I smelled it first— the electric charge, the brimstone, the green earth. I thought he would kill us both. But he didn’t. He ran straight for the chimera. He wrapped his arms around its neck, and swung his legs up like it was nothing, like he was mounting a fucking horse.

The chimera released me from its paws and the lion head snapped its teeth towards Snow. He unsheathed his sword.

“Snow, don’t!” I called to him. “Chimera’s aren’t corporal. Your sword is useless.”

He glanced at me and I saw his horror. (Snow always draws his blade first. It tends to be more reliable).

“Use your bloody wand,” I shouted at him. Instead, the glorious bastard improvised. He positioned himself on the chimera’s back, between the lion and goat head, and then he kicked the beast right in the goat face.

The goat bleated. Snow took advantage and snatched my wand before dropping to the ground, narrowly missing another snap from the lion’s jaws.

I stared at him, in disbelief. He looked at me, his eyes wide and intense. He was surprised too. He had just saved me.

And then Snow took off. He grabbed my hand as he passed me and tugged me forward. We ran, and all I could think about was his magic. I could feel it pouring from him, nestling itself into me. I felt drunk. He didn’t let go of my hand until we were thick into the Wavering Woods. He also didn’t give me back my wand. Maybe he was worried I would leave him behind.

Eventually Snow stopped running, clutching at his side. “I can’t,” he wheezed. The chimera let out a low rumble from behind us. It was calling for him. Snow kept panting, pulling at his hair. “I thought it would head towards the mountains. I thought it would go home!” He was on the verge of tears.

It was an entirely stupid assumption. Why would it? Snow kicked it, and waved his bloody sword at it. I chained it to a fucking tree. The chimera came into view around the same time Snow started manically cursing.

“It’s fine,” I hushed at him, because I was convinced he was going to have a break down. “Here, give me my wand.” And even though I had every intention of saving us, Snow hesitated, his blue eyes darting to the pocket holding my wand. I could see every assumption he had ever made about me on his face in that moment, and not a one of them were kind. He didn't trust me, which wasn't at all surprising, but the sting of it was. And then everything got worse, because as Snow hesitated the chimera sprinted straight for him.

He screeched.

“Snow, go off. Fucking go off!” I screamed as the chimera picked him up between his jaws.

"I don't know... it doesn't work like that!” he yelled back while trying to free himself.

"Fuck you, it does so.” I was angry. The one time I needed him to go off, to save himself. I realized then how deeply his lack of control ran. He didn't respond. And I couldn’t do anything as he screamed louder. My fire was useless. Snow had my wand. The chimera didn't even have blood for me to drain.

Snow went silent as the lion head sunk his teeth into his torso.

His blood.

It was all I could smell.

My fangs popped as he let out a horrible gurgling sound.

He was dying.

I ran toward him, I wasn’t going to let him die stuck in the jaws of a chimera. I had no idea what I was going to do. I just couldn’t let him die like that. Snow’s magic rammed itself into me before I had to think it through further. He was rallying, and his magic was dizzying. He went off in a cloud of vibrant energy that I felt like I could reach out and touch. The world was shimmering, hot air consuming us. It was like seeing heat rise. Snow was cursing, and the Chimera was fading. I was fading. One minute I could see Snow, the next I couldn’t. My eyes were constantly searching for him. He was going nuclear. His aurora was uncontrollable, eating at the space around him until he was glowing.

He was saving us.

Minutes passed and then I was left staring at Snow, standing in a blackened pit, a laceration through half his body and bleeding endlessly.

But the chimera was gone.

And he was alive.

“Snow,” I croaked.

“ _Why,_ ” he hissed at me. It was all he said before he winced and fell forward.

I had to carry him back. I grabbed my wand from his pocket, tried my best at a healing spell, and then scooped him up like a sleeping child. It was the longest walk of my life.

Snow stirred in my arms as we made our way onto the Great Lawn. He groaned and dug his nails into me when I dropped to my knees to let him down. His hand clutched my jumper, his clumsy fingers stretching at the fabric.

Everyone was waiting for us. As soon as we were spotted everything went loud. People were shouting, and running, and Snow looked terrified again.

Bunce got to us first.

“What did you do to him,” she screamed at me.

“Nothing,” I lied.

I took a step back and I let people tend to Snow. He kept catching my eye. He didn’t say a word until the Mage asked what happened.

“Chimera, Sir,” Snow mumbled.

“How did it get here?”

He shrugged.

“We need to take him to the ward,” a nurse snapped.

And that was the end of the conversation.

I kept watching Snow as the crowd thinned. Eventually, it was only Wellbelove and I left. I hadn’t even noticed her before. Her features were pouted, but her face was impassive. She watched Snow being carried away like it didn't matter. Like he had wanted this, the attention, the near death experience. I knew enough about Snow to know he never wanted the attention, even if I liked to get under his skin by saying he did. I swear she rolled her eyes as a few lingering first years discussed how tragic it was.

I limped toward her on my way to Mummers. “Wellbelove?” When her eyes found mine her face cracked, the impassiveness abruptly gone. She looked uneasy, because she had let herself slip, and I saw it. “He almost died,” I hissed at her.

She straightened and pursed her lips. She didn’t say a word to me as she started towards the nurse’s ward.

It was the moment I knew she didn’t deserve him.

———

I wait in the halls of the Healing Sanctuary until I see the tired night nurse walk out of the ward and toward the kitchen for her break. Legally, there should be another nurse on shift. But, I know how the Mage runs this place.

I slip into the ward; it’s a long, narrow room with more beds than we need. Most students can go their entire eight years without visiting the ward. Snow probably has a punch card for how frequently he’s been here.

I slowly walk by the beds until I see a collection of bronze curls spilling across a pillow. He’s asleep, the white sheets pulled up around him. He looks paler than he should, and there’s a gash on his cheek I don’t remember him getting.

“Snow?” I whisper carefully, leaning towards him on the bed. He exhales and his hand twitches. I swallow. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

He startles me when he whimpers and turns his face into his pillow. I try not to think about the new nightmare I’ve added to his rotation. I’ve never asked him if it hurts to go off. It’s not the type of thing I’m supposed to care about.

I grab my wand and touch the side of his temple. **“Sweet dreams**.” I cast softly. It’s the least I can do **.**

He should go into a peaceful sleep. Instead, his eyes sluggishly open. He looks at me, blinking a few times.

Typical. Snow can’t even be spelled properly.

He goes to open his mouth, but I shake my head at him.

“Shhh.”

He furrows his brow and his voice comes out thick with my magic.

“I just—“

“Hush.”

“I worry—.”

“Don’t.”

“But—“

“ _Simon,_ ” I say fiercely.

“Baz?”

His hands come reaching for me.

“Here.”

I’m here.

 _I love you_.

I swallow as his fingers find the edge of my sleeve. He tugs gently before he closes his eyes again.

I stay as long as I can, his fingers softly resting against my skin.

I listen to him breathe.

I count his inhales and exhales.


	10. Year Six: Simon's First Performance

**Year Six: Early December**

**SIMON**

I stand in the cold outside The Cloisters waiting for Agatha’s signal. The dorm looks Medieval and is without a doubt haunted. I bounce on my toes as another cold whisper falls on my neck.

Bloody ghosts. I swear they love me.

I hear a window creak open, and Agatha drops a piece of paper from above. It floats slowly and gracefully to the ground. She didn’t even spell it, that’s just Agatha. Everything she does is graceful. I suggested she send a small ball of light to me once it was safe for me to climb up, because she’s surprisingly good with light magic (and I hate the dark, not that I would _ever_ tell anyone that). But, she told me it was a waste of magic and that boys had been sneaking into girls’ rooms for centuries without spelled orbs.

 **“Sticky paws,”** I murmur carefully as I point my wand at my hands. I’ve been practicing; to make sure I don’t over stick anything or turn my hands into literal paws. The first time I attempted the spell I gave Penny nightmares for a week. I look terrifying with cat paws. I gently touch the wall and feel triumphant as my hand adheres successfully. The first row of windows sits at the same height as the third floor of Mummers. The entire building is impractical. I slowly climb up the wall. I hate the suctioning sound, and the gritty feeling from whatever substance this is (I don’t want to know) but **sticky paws** is safer than a flying or floating spell. Even Baz struggles with those. As he should. The magical world likes to have balance, and giving mages control of magic and the gift of flight would be terribly cruel to the pegasi and dragons. Plus, Baz is a vampire. He doesn’t need any more advantages.

“Simon?” Agatha whispers. I pop into view and she almost screams. “You scared me,” she laughs.

I smile as I pull myself up onto the window ledge. I tumble into her room, breathless and sweaty from effort. “ **Nonsense**!” I point my wand to my hands and the stickiness sinks back into my skin.

Agatha rolls her eyes. “I still think you should have used a ladder.”

I snort. “Where was I going to get a ladder?”

She gives me a blank look and points out her window towards the stables and Ebb’s cottage. She’s right. I’ve been in the stables enough to know there are multiple ladders.

I shrug sheepishly at her and we both smile. I let my eyes dart around her room hesitantly. We don’t normally get to be alone like this. “I brought my toothbrush,” I say, foolishly, hoping for confirmation that I will still be spending the night like we discussed. She laughs softly. “Simon, we don’t all have en suite bathrooms like you and Baz— you can’t leave my room. Someone will see you.”

“Right,” I mumble.

Agatha has a mischievous glint to her eye. “Don’t act like that’s a bad thing,” she whispers. I swallow, because her voice is lovely. And it’s not a bad thing. We find our way onto her bed, it’s a tight fit, but I suppose that’s good for what we are planning.She kisses me, delicately, and I try to tell myself to calm down. I focus on touching her, on how soft her skin is, the thin fabric of her shirt.

“Should we, um, undress?” I ask.

She nods and presses a kiss to my neck.

I help her out of her shirt and awkwardly shrug out of mine. I should have used some of Baz’s cologne. He always smells expensive. Everyone Agatha has ever met probably smells like Baz. Actually, she would probably like it if I did smell like Baz, and then it would be a whole thing if she told me I smelled nice while wearing his cologne. And _Merlin_ , what if Baz noticed? He would. If I came home smelling like him he would notice. He hates when I touch any of his stuff, even if I borrow a pen without asking. He would also never let me live it down.

_“Trying to be like me, Snow? Rather desperate of you.”_

Something like that. It’s always something with Baz.

 _Stop thinking about Baz_ , I tell myself.

I try not to stare at the lace on Agatha’s bra as she pulls me closer to her. But then I realize I _should_ be staring— that’s the point of getting undressed with someone else like this.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper timidly to her.

She smiles and reaches her small hands to my jeans. I inhale, trying to steady my heart so she won't know how anxious I am. I kiss her, deeply, until she pulls back.

“Less tongue, Simon,” she tells me.

Right.

I try again. We keep kissing and I keep telling myself I want this. I want her. It goes well, relatively, until she slides her hand down the front of my jeans.

“Oh?” She drawls, with her hand resting on me through my pants. There is an emphasis on her disappointment as she extends such a short word. Never has _oh_ said so bloody much.

“I’m just a little tense,” I say tersely.

 _Fuck_.

I close my eyes and breathe. I think about her. I touch her. Nothing happens. My heart beats faster. This can’t be happening. _I want this,_ I say again to myself. This is Agatha Wellbelove, with her lovely hair and long limbs, and she wants this. She wants me.

When I open my eyes she’s looking at me expectantly. _You need to deliver, Snow_. I hiss at myself.

She doesn’t seem nervous at all.

It makes me feel worse.

“Don’t you want this?” she asks quietly. There’s a hint of frustration in her voice, she gives me a guilty look when she realizes I've noticed. 

“Of course,” I say. Because I do. She tries again, slowly moving her hand across me. And it feels nice, it really does. Mentally, I react. But, physically…nothing. Not enough anyway. I start to panic, my brain swirling in endless circles. It has never been so glaringly obvious that I’m not on the same level as her.

Merlin, is this _really_ happening—

I can’t.

I shut down.

I get up abruptly.

“It’s not you,” I say.

Because it’s not.

She bites her lip as I find my shirt on the floor. I can’t stay. Not now.

————

I make the shameful walk back to Mummers. I feel betrayed by my own body as my feet climb the stairs heavily.

Baz curses at me as I slam the door to our room.

I don’t care.

I turn on the light so I can see. We aren’t all vampires.

“Crowley, Snow. I’m fucking sleeping,” he snaps.

I look over to him, he’s got the covers pulled up over his head. I don’t say anything as I grab my towel and pajamas. I need to shower. I bang my shoulder into my wardrobe. I thrust my shin into the frame of my bed. I like the feeling of running into things when I’m upset. It’s a nice release.

Baz sits up. He’s glaring at me, and I know I’m being too loud. I stare back to a point just over his head. He frowns, and then his hands reach up to smooth out his hair, which is hilarious, because there isn’t a hair out of place. I roll my eyes.

“Why aren’t you with Wellbelove?” he asks.

I regret telling him where I was going. I don’t know why I did. I guess because he asked like he was genuinely curious about my life, which I sort of liked, so I answered. And it was almost like we were getting along. In fact, this entire term we have a _lmost_ been getting along _._ He’s still a git, obviously, but he hasn’t tried to kill me in months, and most days we manage to have half-civil conversations.

“Snow?” Baz says hesitantly.

I don’t respond as I walk into the bathroom and slam another door.


	11. Year Six: Unexpected Understanding

**Year Six: Early December**

**BAZ**

Something is wrong with Snow.

He comes out of the bathroom, dragging his feet, looking pathetically tragic with his dripping curls and damp clothes. He clearly didn’t bother drying off.

He’s also not supposed to be here.

He’s supposed to be out breaking rules and having sex with his girlfriend.

I eye him apprehensively as he shuffles around the room. He reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a mint Aero bar.

“Snow?”

He glances over at me, like he’s forgotten I’m here. Strangely, he snaps the chocolate bar in half and offers it to me. I'm not sure he's ever offered to share food with anyone, least of all me, least of all his private stash. I shake my head as he shrugs and bites into the chocolate with a hunger that is verging on desperation.

“Can you turn off the light,” he says to me. I raise an eyebrow at him. It’s the first thing he’s said since walking into the room. “Please," he adds.

“You bloody turned it on,” I say.

He sighs and slowly walks to the light switch by the door. Once the room goes dark I try to sound casual as I ask, “What happened?” Because something obviously did.

Snow doesn’t say anything. He sits on the floor near his bed and breathes deeply.

“Snow?”

Nothing.

I can feel his magic, slowly unraveling, like it does when he’s upset. It must be about the Humdrum. Maybe he’s learned something? I climb out of bed and sit across from him on the floor. His magic curls around me, gently, it feels different from when he’s angry. I’m used to his magic ramming into me.

“What is it?” I ask again, trying to keep the worry from my voice.

He finally answers me. “I couldn’t…” his voice is hoarse, and I can see the tears sliding down his cheeks as he shoves more chocolate into his mouth.

He won’t look at me.

“Couldn’t what? Crowley, did you kill someone?”

He looks up and I nearly reach out to smooth back his hair. His face is a mess, twisted with too many emotions. It's hard to look at.  “What— no— why ‘ould tha’ be your first ‘sumption?” He practically chokes as he tries to talk through his food. Honestly, it’s disgusting. But, I can also smell the mint and chocolate, and I picture how it would be warm and melted, which gives me the overwhelming urge to lick the inside of his mouth as he gapes at me, which isn't good for anyone.

“Can you not,” I snap.

He swallows thickly. “Sorry.”

“I’m going to assume you’ve done something stupid. Which for you usually means swinging your sword at something you shouldn’t”— he shakes his head at me —“I can feel your magic, Snow. What’s going on?”

He takes a deep breath, his magic yielding slightly. “Something happened—with Agatha. I shouldn’t even tell you this. It’s awful. And you’ll tell everyone.”

I snort. “Crowley, Snow. What did you do?”

There is no way he accidentally killed her.

He bites his lip and looks away again. “It was what I _couldn’t_ do,” he whispers.

I don’t say anything for a minute. His heartbeat picks up, and I can see his shame all over him. He doesn’t need to explain further, I know what he means. It’s entirely unexpected. As is his honesty. If this were last year I would already be shouting out the window that the Chosen One has performance issues. If this were last year he wouldn’t be telling me at all.

“Oh. I see,” I say cautiously. I clear my throat. I’ve never felt more uncomfortable around Snow. He finally looks at me.

“It’s pathetic,” he whispers.

I try to be kind. “Well, I’m sure it happens sometimes… you can’t always be, uh, your best.” I sound like him. It’s an entirely useless thing to say.

He bites harder on his lip. “That’s it though, this was the only time we’ve tried. I’m almost seventeen, Baz. Shouldn't this be easy for me? For once, something should be easy.”

He’s got a point. “Well, does _it_ work normally?” I ask.

He drops his gaze. “I just told you—“

“No, I mean without Agatha. In general does it seem to, uh, work?” _Crowley_. I’m thankful he can’t see me blushing right now. I regret the rats I drained earlier.

“Oh. Uh, yeah. I guess. I mean, it seems all right, I think?”

I almost laugh. I feel delirious. Did Simon Snow really just tell me his penis seems all right? I close my eyes and resist my overwhelming urge to say something wildly inappropriate. 

“I’m sure this happens,” I offer vaguely. I keep my voice neutral and try not to expose the sick satisfaction I have in knowing he hasn’t slept with Wellbelove yet.

“To you?” he asks. I shake my head. “Never mind. That’s a dumb question. Of course not—“

“I’ve never been with someone to know,” I answer. I’m so weak. I don’t need to be honest. I could make him feel worse by saying all my sexual conquests are always thoroughly satisfied.

“Wait, really?” His voice lifts, he sounds genuinely surprised.

“Yes, why is this such a revelation?”

He laughs. “Baz, girls bloody love you.”

“Right.”

He’s so stupid.

“Maybe it just wasn’t a good night,” I suggest. “There is a lot going on. You have... a lot.”

He’s quiet for a few seconds. I take advantage of the darkness and watch his face. I focus on the mole he has over his left eye. The one I always picture brushing my lips over. I wonder if Wellbelove ever has.

Finally he sighs. “Thanks, Baz. I think I'm just tired. I just need to sleep.”

As he climbs back into bed I want to tell him I won’t tell anyone. I want to reassure him. Instead, I pretend not to hear his quiet sobs as he falls asleep.


	12. Year Six: The Yultide Ball

**Year Six: December**

**SIMON**

I’m nervous as I do up the last button on one of Premal’s dress shirts. It doesn’t fit as well as I had hoped. I opted out of his trousers, since the bottom hem brushed my ankles (he’s barely taller than Penny). So, I’m stuck with my grey school slacks, and I guess they are okay— I mean, they fit, and are nicer than jeans.

But, I know Agatha will be wearing some beautiful gown. I was just going to wear my white shirt that I wear under my school jumper, but Elspeth told me I couldn’t take Agatha to the Yuletide Ball in my uniform.

Merlin, I’m going to a _ball_.

I thought I had two more years to prepare for the humiliation of a fancy dance. But, last week at breakfast Agatha had wanted to know when I was planning on asking her to the Year 6 Yuletide Ball, and I panicked because I had no bloody idea what she was on about. (I thought there was only the Leaver’s Ball at the end of Year 8. Penny later told me all school dances are listed in the handbook, and “ _Honestly_ , Simon— didn’t you read it?). (Of course I didn’t fucking read it, it was 200 pages).

I didn’t know what to say, so I told Agatha I was still working on how to ask. I only meant in general, because I’m a bloody idiot. But, Agatha thought I meant I was working on some grand gesture. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her face light up so quickly. “That’s fantastic! It will be like my Normal friends and their prom-posals!” She was practically squealing.

“A prom-what?”

Agatha explained and I sunk into my seat. Penny had rolled her eyes and went on some rant about the fundamental flaws in “prom culture.” I stopped listening and tried to think of a grand gesture.

Of course I couldn’t think of a single thing.

I actually debated asking Baz for help. But, I’m still too embarrassed to look at him properly after the thing with Agatha.

I did ask Penny. She was useless. _“What the fuck would I know about asking someone to prom?”_

I was left to my own devices, meaning I went with making a really stupid sign, with poorly glued on pink glitter, and shakily drawn snowflakes, and my terrible writing scrawling out: Agatha, Yuletide Ball?

I’m cringing thinking about it.

She hated it.

I hated it.

Baz told me it was the lamest thing he had ever seen.

Hence why I’m really trying to look nice.

Premal’s shirt is a little snug across my shoulders, meaning I’ve lost full mobility of my arms (unless I want to hulk out). I should have borrowed something from someone else. Most of Premal’s shirts were in this terrible shade of Robin Hood green (part of being one of the Mage’s Men).

I banned all green when Penny told me, “You look a bit like a Mage in that.” It creeped me out, and we spent an entire afternoon digging through Premal’s closet for something that wasn’t green.

I was left with two choices— purple or blue.

The purple was nice, but I felt like I couldn’t pull it off. Personally, I don’t think Premal can either. Neither of us is very suave— and it is the type of purple you need to be suave for. Baz could probably wear it.

I went with the blue at Penny’s recommendation.

“Whoa, your eyes look blue.” She had said to me when I tried it on.

I frowned. “They’ve always been blue.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, but now they are noticeably blue. It looks good.” (Which in Penny terms is a pretty big compliment).

I meet Agatha outside Founder’s Hall, and I see her before she sees me. I was right; she is wearing a beautiful gown that makes her look radiant. Although, she is always radiant.

A few other couples I know are meeting up in the long hallway— Gareth and Elspeth, Trixie and Fleur. I nod to them as I walk towards Agatha. I realize my first mistake of the evening as Gareth slips white flowers onto Elspeth’s wrist.

Well, fuck.

I didn’t get Agatha flowers.

I pray she doesn’t notice.

“You look really beautiful,” I tell her as I lean in to kiss her cheek. Her floor length dress reminds me of the champagne her parents serve at New Years. And she’s tied her hair up into an elaborate bun. I can already feel people staring at her.

She says thank you, and looks at me like she’s waiting for something else. _Flowers_.

“Listen, Aggie, I didn’t know… umm… I didn’t get you a wrist thing, and I feel like an idiot. I just didn’t…”

I don’t finish. We have this same conversation almost weekly. I forget things, things a good boyfriend would remember. But, I can only think about so many things in a day, and most of the time I’m thinking about how to defeat the Humdrum, or making sure an offhand comment from Baz isn’t actually a threat.

Agatha shakes her head and slips her arm in mine. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”

I still feel awful.

We make our way through the massive oak doors. Inside, the Founder’s Hall has been transformed. Normally, the hall feels impersonal— there is too much empty space, and during exam season the entire room is filled with endless rows of uncomfortable wooden desks and chairs (I don’t have the best memories in this room). Even the windows are too high up to offer an escape from the barrenness.

But, tonight yards of dark fabric hang across marble pillars to create the illusion of a lower ceiling and a smaller space. Hundreds of fairy lights have been spelled to float slowly across the room. It’s magical, and a bit cheesy. But, undeniably beautiful. (I really like fairy lights).

Agatha and I stand together and take the room in. It has only been a few minutes, but already I’m worried she is bored. So, I extend my hand and do a small curtsy as I ask her to dance.

When I wrap my hands around her waist I try not to think about the last time I touched her like this (when I failed her miserably). She places her head on my shoulder and we sway together slowly. She smells like vanilla and lavender. 

We stay pressed together as the first song roles into another. It’s got a better beat to it, and some couples move out of a sway into more active dancing. Agatha looks up at me, her honey eyes beaming and I shake my head. I would probably step on her feet if I tried to twirl her the same way Trixie is twirling Fleur.

"Come on, Simon. Twirling is easy. I'm the one who is spinning.” Agatha pouts.

"All right," I laugh. "I'll give it a go, but no dipping. I don't want to drop you.”

She laughs and instructs me on how to hold out my arm for her to spin.

 _This,_ I think, as Agatha comes twirling gently back into my arms.

This is how it should be.


	13. Year Six: Baz's Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this entire chapter listening to Ben Howard's Time is Dancing on repeat (for hours).
> 
> In my head it is the song playing during this scene.
> 
> Give it a listen, or feel free to play your own SnowBaz song. It enhances the experience for this chapter ;)
> 
> Ps.  
> I somehow had this chapter as a draft still and it didn't post with my original posting. Sorry to anyone who missed it! This is the best part of the entire Yuletide Ball chapters and I fudged it up lol.

**Year Six: December**

**SIMON**

“May I cut in?” Baz’s smooth voice curls around the back of my neck.

I stiffen. I didn’t think he would be here. Baz never comes to school functions.

Agatha is already releasing me, a slight smile on her lips. Or, maybe I’m imagining it. Penny says I’m foolish when it comes to Agatha and Baz. She’s threatened more than once to drop me as a friend if I keep acting like a chauvinistic oaf, treating Agatha like something I possess instead of a person.

She would understand if she were me. It’s Baz’s fault. He’s just always around, doing things like _this_. Tormenting me, and making me feel inadequate.

Baz clears his throat.

“You can’t be serious?” I say to him as I turn around. One evening. Just a single fucking evening where I don't have to think about him is all I ask for. 

He’s smirking, his hair tucked behind his ears, looking like he couldn’t care less if Agatha says no or not. He’s not even bloody looking at her. Maybe this is why Agatha likes him so much, he’s indifferent, and I feel like I’m desperate for her to approve, to check all the boxes and tell me I meet all the requirements.

“It’s only one dance, Simon,” Agatha says softly to me. But, it’s not. It’s never one dance with him. Baz grins and holds out his hand for her.

“Can’t you leave me alone for, like, two seconds?” I growl at him. I’m trying not to get worked up, but I can feel my magic pulling through me already.

Baz sighs, “Snow, don’t say like. You sound stupid when you do.”

I clench my jaw. I want to punch him. But, Penny would lecture me for days again if I did (which is what happened last time).

So I breathe, and concede. “What are your intentions?” I ask him seriously.

He snorts and lifts a dark eyebrow at me. “To dance, Snow.”

“One song.” I say to no one in particular. It’s not like either of them actually needs my permission.

Baz smirks again, “So glad you’ve worked this out. Come on.” He still has his hand outstretched and I close my eyes as Agatha steps between us. I don’t want to see how nicely their hands fit together.

“Shall we Waltz?” Agatha’s voice is practically singing. I tell myself it’s only fair she gets to dance with someone who can Waltz— we both know I can’t.

Still, I feel like I might cry.

“You’ve misunderstood. I wasn’t asking you— I was asking Snow.” Baz’s smooth voice fills my head. Did he just? I snap open my eyes. He’s already looking at me. I try to control the hysterical laughter bubbling in my throat. I must be going mad, there is no way he just asked…

Agatha laughs. “Very funny.” She takes his arm but he gently removes her hand from him.

“I wasn’t joking.”

I keep staring at him, with my mouth agape in a way I know makes me look incredibly unattractive. He doesn’t drop his stormy gaze from mine. He seems completely serious. I notice his eyes have more swirls of green than usual, and then I notice his suit— a deep green that is verging on black against the fairy lights. It’s striking. (I’m also pretty sure it isn’t a conventional suit colour, and that anyone else would look like a tit in it). (Also, it’s incredible, really, how much Baz’s eyes change depending on what he’s wearing. My eyes are so unremarkable even my best friend forgot they were blue).

“I can’t dance with you.” I say hastily as I step closer to Agatha. She’s got her arms crossed.

He’s insane. Sane people don’t turn down Agatha.

“Why not?” Baz won’t stop smirking. He thinks this is amusing.

He’s tricking me— somehow. He must be.

I shake my head. “Because you’re a boy.” It’s a stupid thing to say. And I don’t know why I say this over “because you’ve tried to kill me every year since we met.” Or “because you’re a prick.”

I see a shadow cross Baz’s face. “Does that matter?”

It doesn’t. I think? I mean, Trixie is here with her girlfriend. I just mean it matters because he’s him— he’s a very specific boy, who hates me, and will likely use the lack of the Anathema to his advantage.

I try to recover. “I mean… well. I just mean, it’s you, isn’t it?” My word choices don’t improve.

Baz rolls his eyes at me. “Crowley, Snow. I didn’t peg you for homophobic.”

“ _What_?” I splutter. Why would he assume that about me? And what does it have to do with anything. I’m not. _He_ probably is. His whole family is intolerant. “No, I’m not! It’s just, it’s you...”

“Oh, just bloody dance with him. I’m going to get a drink.” Agatha pushes me forward as she brushes behind me. Some sensible part of my brain tells me to follow her— _don’t dance with Baz,_ it says _._ Warning signs flash. Only, I’ve never been very sensible.

Baz holds out his hand to me and I swallow. “Let’s go, Snow. I happen to like this song.” I nod, and swallow thickly again.

Against all odds I place my sweaty palm in his cool hand.

“Nervous already?” He laughs.

“Shut up,” I mumble.

I try to work out what his ulterior motive might be as he leads me towards the centre of the dance floor. When he takes my waist I jump back, my eyes wide, and my cheeks hot. I mean, it’s not every day my nemesis grabs my waist.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Have I unnerved you, Snow?”

I try to regain my composer. “ _No_. Just…why do you get to be the boy?” Baz laughs, a real laugh that catches me by surprise. I blush fiercely. _Merlin_ , why did I blurt that out? I close my eyes and wish for a dragon to attack, anything to save me from my own fucking mouth.

Baz gives me a cheeky grin and lets his gaze drop. “We’re both boys, last I heard anyways.” I blush more and try to ignore his accusing eyes.

“But, you know— why do _you_ get to lead?”

He smiles, and for once it isn’t a sneer or a smirk. He surprises me again, because it softens his face completely. I imagine this is how he smiles at people he actually likes.

“Because you can’t,” he whispers.

I feel a shiver in my spine. “Right.”

He shakes his head lightly, a bubble of laughter caught in his throat.  “So, I’m going to assume you don’t know how to dance properly?”

His voice is light, teasing. Entirely unlike him. I look at him strangely. “Remarkably, they don’t kick you out of group homes if you can’t Waltz.”

“They should reconsider that policy.”

“I can sway?” I offer with a half shrug.

He smiles again. He should do it more.

“All right, Snow, for you I’ll lower my standards and dance like a first year.”

“You’re always _so_ considerate.”

And despite everything we both laugh.

I don’t say anything else as his hands find my waist again. I take a deep breath and try to relax. I expect him to be rough, but I barely feel the pressure from his fingers and palms. I start to sweat more as I awkwardly place my hands to his shoulders. Last time I had my hand on his shoulder he threw me down a flight of stairs. I flinch a little and he sighs.

“Breathe, Snow. I won’t bite.”

I try to laugh again, but it feels weird to be so close to him. To be able to feel his exhales on my skin when he speaks. To smell his posh soap from a place so intimate.

That’s the wrong word.

Only… that’s how this feels. _Intimate_.

We don’t talk as we sway slowly. I look to the ground, away from Baz’s face. But, every time I look up he’s looking right at me. His nose is inches from my forehead. If I leaned in a little I could touch it. If I titled my head a fraction of an inch I could rest against his cheek.

I don’t think about how I fit into the space around him so neatly. How this feels nice. Strange, but nice. _Intimate_. The word won’t relent.

I don’t move my head. I’m careful to make sure I don’t get any closer, and that our legs, or hips, don’t accidentally bump.

Baz lowers his head and my efforts not to touch him become useless. His exhales move the hair by my ears. He slowly moves his right hand higher on my waist. He drags his left hand from its current position to my back. His fingers press into my spine.

I lick my lips and let out a shaky exhale.

“All right?” He asks carefully. His voice. It’s different. I feel like he’s asking if _this_ is all right. His hands. His lingering fingers against my skin— the silkiness to his touch.

I can’t speak. I can’t think past his hands. About the allegations my heart is leaving as it beats harder in my chest. I’m nervous, just like I was dancing with Agatha, and yet this feels so different.

Baz feels different.

I realize I’m _too_ distracted. I haven’t looked around the room once since we started dancing— which means Baz could have snuck something by me, another chimera perhaps. Maybe this entire thing was a big ruse to bring my downfall. Or maybe this is his new approach to stealing Agatha. He must be trying to steal Agatha by…? I don’t know, _something_.

One thing I’m sure of, he’s fucking with me. He has to be.

I clear my throat and Baz’s eyes find mine.

“So, what is this? A plot? A plan….”

He lifts that excruciating eyebrow again. “Yes, Snow. My evil plan all along has been to get you to dance with me.”

“I’m _serious_.” My voice cracks. _Merlin_. I look away embarrassed.

Baz lowers his voice. “There is no plan, Snow.” I look back to him and I swear I can feel his fingers press more firmly into my skin. “I just want to dance,” he whispers.

“With me though?”

He drops his gaze, and for the first time in six years I get the impression Baz is nervous over something.

I tell myself he’s nervous over whatever he’s planning. He’s worried it won’t work out.

I lean closer to him.

“I’ll figure it out.” I whisper against his skin. I feel his shoulders straighten.

“Wouldn’t that be something...,” he closes his eyes and I let the conversation drop.

When the song ends neither of us releases the other. We stop moving, and wait for the next song to start. When the tempo picks up dramatically I let my fingers drop from his shoulders. I drag them down his arms, because I want to make sure he doesn’t have something up his sleeve— literally.

Baz drops his hands from me. We look at each other. Everyone else must be wondering what the hell is happening. It isn’t a secret that we’re adversaries. We both complain about the other ceaselessly.

Penny probably says to me weekly, “We get it, Simon. You hate Baz. Baz is evil. Baz. Baz. Baz. Now _stop_ talking about him— you’re obsessed.”

I finally get it. What she means. Because for the last four minutes I was only focused on Baz, and where his hands were, and what _he_ was thinking. And now I can’t stop thinking about him.

He speaks first. His voice comes out strained, like he hasn’t used it in months. “You should probably find your girlfriend, Snow. Wouldn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”

I don’t know what he means. But, before I can ask he strides off with his impossibly long legs.

I do find Agatha.

She’s not happy.

And I feel unexpectedly so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is curious, I feel like this song is Baz through and through for how he feels about Simon in this moment. Lyrics below for anyone interested :)
> 
> Lost in the insignificance of mine  
> I had no words to say
> 
> Now I am better  
> I implore you to say It isn't right
> 
> But somewhere deep in history  
> You're father pulled the teeth out of your fight 
> 
> Hold it in. let's go dancing  
> I do believe we're only passing through  
> Wired again, look who's laughing  
> You again, all you, all you, all you.
> 
> Hold it in, let's go dancing  
> I do believe we're only passing through  
> Wired again, looks who's laughing  
> Me again, all fired up on you.
> 
> And now [he's] caught between  
> What to say and what [he] really means
> 
> Wrapped up in empathy  
> The chemicals are pushing past my blood
> 
> Hold all my cliches  
> They are tipping my tongue to tell you that it's love
> 
> Hold it in, let's go dancing  
> I do believe we're only passing through  
> Wired again, look who's laughing  
> You again, all you, all you, all you
> 
> Hold it in, let's go dancing  
> I do believe we're only passing through  
> Wired again, looks who's laughing  
> Me again, all fired up on you.
> 
> And now [he's] caught between  
> What to say and what [he] really means  
> And I am finally colouring  
> Inside the lines that I live between


	14. Year Six: It was only a dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is everything so far! I have the next chapter in the works, and it may have a bit of smut in it. I'm never sure if people are interested in that? Let me know. 
> 
> Also, if anyone has any story ideas they would like to see in an earlier year let me know as well! I would love to write them :)
> 
> Hope everyone enjoys :)

**Year Six: December**

**BAZ**

Snow gets back from the dance late. I don’t normally bother with school functions, but I was feeling uncharacteristically sentimental when I decided to attend.

I was supposed to go and mind my own business. For once, I told myself, I was going to enjoy my evening. I wasn’t going to partake in the Simon Snow show. I was going to have a night where I did what I wanted. Maybe pay an ounce of attention to Dev and Niall.

I lasted exactly ten minutes before I realized what I wanted was to dance with Simon Snow. I wanted to partake in his show. In fact, I wanted a starring fucking role.

At first I really was going to ask Wellbelove to dance. I concluded, after much internal debate, that I couldn’t very well ask Snow to dance, so I might as well piss him off and ask his girlfriend. And I knew it would work.

I approached the golden couple with every intention of sweeping Wellbelove off her feet (something I could literally do).

Only, Snow had to bloody turn around before I could follow through. He was wearing someone else’s shirt (it isn’t creepy that I know this, he only owns about four things for me to notice), and the blue of it made his eyes painfully intense to look at. I could feel his magic starting to run through him. He was annoyed at me, glaring with his pretty eyes, oblivious to Wellbelove’s eagerness. I couldn’t look away from him. So I thought, fuck it.

I asked Simon Snow to dance.

I wanted him to know what it feels like to dance with someone when they want you properly. I wanted him to feel the difference, to notice that dancing with Wellbelove would never feel the same, because I’m the one who is madly in love with him. I figured it would piss him off in a whole new way.

I thought he would say no, or punch me.

Simon hesitates in our room. I shut my eyes tighter. I’m excruciatingly aware of his presence as he starts to undress. Of his scent, and movements, and sighs.

Finally, he lays back on his bed. He’s restless.

“Snow, I’m trying to sleep.” I whisper angrily to him. But, my voice is lacking its usual malice. I’m still picturing his bronze curls, inches from my nose, as we swayed on the dance floor. He smelled like smoke, and something softer. _Cinnamon_.

I can still feel the electricity on every place his fingers left impressions on me, on every spot where his warm exhales graced my skin.

He sighs and then props himself up on his elbow. “

Are you awake?” He asks.

" _Obviously_.”

He shifts again on his bed, and stays silent for a few seconds. “Can I ask you something?” He finally says, nervously. I can hear his heart in his chest.

“I don’t know— _can_ you?” I try to put the spite back in my voice, and I’m glad he can’t see my trembling fingers. I can still feel his waist under my hands, and the tightness of his back muscles as I pressed my fingers against him.

He sighs again. “Right. Just…what _was_ tonight?”

“It _was_ the Yuletide Ball,” I answer quickly. “Do you have a head injury?”

“I _wasn’t_ done talking,” he snaps back at me.

“You shouldn’t have hesitated—”

“ _Jesus_ …let me ask, okay?”

“Fine.”

I grin to myself. I would never admit it, but I love hearing Snow swear like a Normal. When I think of him, of the things I would like to do to him, I’m always making him swear like a Normal.

“I keep thinking about why you would ask me to dance—“

My own heartbeat picks up. I did practically tell him I was gay tonight. Plus, his voice when he said “I’ll figure it out”, his mouth inches from my neck, and all I could think about was what if he did? What if he found out the real truth? Would he care? Could we…

“And I have theories, about plotting, and you wanting to kill me, and trying to distract me. But, they don’t make sense. Not really. Because here I am, just fine, and nothing bad happened. I danced with _you_ — Baz Pitch — and nothing bad happened.”

I laugh. “Did you think the gods were going to smite you because you danced with a boy?”

Seriously, he can’t be _this_ thick?

He doesn’t laugh back. “No. Baz, I can’t keep up. I can’t understand our…dynamic. Like, do you want to kill me?”

“Don’t say—“

“Yeah, I know. Don’t say _like_. Just, answer me. Because I don’t want to kill you. I just don’t.” I can hear the frustration in his voice, the rustling of his sheets as he pulls at his hair.

I don’t say anything.

“Did you hear me?” He demands.

“Snow, it was _just_ a dance.”

“Was it?”

“Of course. I'm _still_ plotting your downfall.”

I look to him— my fatal flaw— and I hate what I see. His face is flushed and he has his beautifully full bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes are wide. Crowley, he looks unfairly kissable.

“So you still want to kill me then?” He asks quietly. And because he sounds like he cares what my answer is I confirm my ascetic complex and roll away from him. I deprave myself of this moment, of what I want. Of the possibility that Snow might be suggesting he felt something tonight. I exert the self—discipline I both rely on and despise.

I bring the sheets up over my head. “Of course,” I say to him, just to drive it home.

I don’t know if he hears me. I don’t know if he can tell I’m crying. I don’t know anything as I hear his breathing eventually deepen with sleep.


	15. Year Six: Magical Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was going to have some more mature content in this chapter, but then I decided I wanted a smoother transition for Simon and Baz's relationship! Hope you still enjoy :). Thanks to all reading and commenting!

**Year 6: January**

**SIMON**

I can’t stand Magical Words. I used to enjoy it, back when I thought I had potential. But, even with private lessons from Miss Possibelf I can still barely handle Normal words, let alone magical. I shouldn’t have put off taking it until winter term. I’m always a little more tired after Christmas. A little more worn. I’m not thin or desperate, like I am after summer. It’s a different tired.

Especially this year. I’m aching all over from a week spent using my sword. My nightmares are more vivid, my sleeping a little less restful.

The Humdrum attacked Watford over Christmas. Rubbish timing, really. No one was on campus but the Mage. Still, he sent a pack of goblins to the gates. (I’m questioning his mastermind capabilities at this point). I was at the Wellbelove’s, as usual, tucking into my third helping of turkey and about to watch Doctor Who when the Mage showed up. He banged on the door, his ear in his hand, ranting about bloody goblins.

Dr. Wellbelove called me into his office after re-attaching the Mage’s ear. He looked serious. I tried not to seem eager. I had never seen the Mage over Christmas before. “He needs your help.” Dr. Wellbelove had told me, before whispering, “Simon, you can say no.” The Mage was sitting in an overstuffed chair with a bandage across his head. He looked distracted, like he was deep in thought.

I grinned and shook off Dr. Wellbelove’s concerns. Why would I ever say no? It was great to be needed. To know the Mage was going to trust me with something. I mean, okay, it’s not like he’s my dad. I don’t need his approval, and I don’t expect him to treat me like his son. (I’m not actually sure he would even be a great dad. He’s always too busy. He’s _been_ too busy for me this entire year). But, he’s the closest thing I have to family. (Minus Penny). And I really like when he trusts me with things. I agreed to help him before he had even said a word. (Baz would have made some snarky comment at that. He never makes a decision on a whim. It takes him twenty minutes to pick out his clothes each night and we wear bloody uniforms. His impulse control would make a monk look undisciplined, which is fucking maddening).

The Mage needed me to go to Essex. I guess they _had_ a goblin problem, that’s where they were congregating. I was to send a message, to discourage any future attacks against Watford. (They had also taken to eating drunk people in club bathrooms. The Mage said something about preserving regional dialects, but honestly, I had stopped listening at that point).

“When do you need me to go, Sir?” I asked. I _was_ thinking about the Wellbelove’s New Year’s Eve party. The fizzy drinks, and endless sweets, and puddings. I loved their New Year’s Eve party.

“Right now, Simon.” He frowned at me, a flicker of disappointment across his face. I guess it was an obvious answer. He wouldn’t have shown up unless he needed me right away.

“Will you be there?”

“Perhaps later. I have to attend to some things with the Coven first.”

I left that night for Essex. Agatha didn’t seem surprised. Her father seemed more concerned than she did.

The Mage never showed. It was just me and a few of his Men fighting goblins for the rest of the break. Premal was there, looking ridiculous in his green tunic.

I don’t even want to think about how many goblins I beheaded with my blade. How many seedy nightclubs I had to enter before they finally retreated. How many people I had to basically outright stalk trying to determine if they were a goblin. I learned pretty quickly it was almost always the best looking bloke in a group. Goblins _are_ right fit… well, once you get past the green skin and blood red mouth. (I say that like you _could_ get past it. Great snakes I’m tired).

I need to stop thinking about the goblins. It was a messy, tiring business. For every involved. Premal had to spell the bouncers every night to let me in. He was a real tit about it too. Constantly muttering about wasting his magic on me. I don’t think I look _that_ young. Anyway, he wasn’t much help with the actual slaying. Bit of a weak stomach on him. Penny loved that. “What a tosser.” She had laughed when I told her. (Penny _has_ slayed a goblin. Fourth year. Freezing spell).

I still haven’t seen the Mage since term started. He did send me a little bird. A robin with a single tweet of thanks, and then it was gone. Baz was in the room when it arrived. He rolled his eyes as he sneered. “What did the Chosen One do for our tyrant of leader this time?”

I shrugged. “Goblin problem.” I was too tired to argue with him that the Mage isn’t a tyrant. I don’t think anyway... Although, Penny’s mum says so too, and a bully. But, Penny also says her mum has personal history with the Mage. Which is strange.  I can’t picture him having a personal anything.

I rub my eyes with my hands and try to stay awake as Miss Possibelf hands out our lesson books. Penny looks over to me and knocks my shoulder. I give her a half smile. She knows I’m tired.

Baz is in Magical Words too. And Agatha. But, I’m sat beside Penny at the back of the room. Baz always sits near the front (because of course). Agatha does as well. But, that’s just because she’s nearsighted and her **a sight for sore eyes** can never last a full lesson.

I asked her once in third year why she didn't wear glasses. She was trying to copy from Penny’s notes, which was getting in the way of me copying Penny’s notes. (Penny doesn’t mind, she suggested it in first year. I still take my own notes, but hers always have little anecdotes and facts the professors never mention. Something about how Penny writes clicks better with me. When I go to write an exam it’s always her voice and her notes that I remember). 

“I _don’t_ need glasses.” She had firmly told me. 

Penny had snorted. “Agatha, there’s no shame in wearing glasses.” She made a show of pushing her own red pointed spectacles up her nose. 

“It’s not about shame. I just don’t need them.” Agatha had huffed, a little snootily. (Agatha is a bit of a snob, not that I mind. I think Penny does. But, Penny can be a bit of a snob too).

“Contacts then?” I had offered.

“Simon, I’m not touching my eye. That freaks me right out.”

“Which is why _I_ wear glasses.” Penny had muttered.

Agatha sighed, like we were both irritating her. “Neither of you are listening. I don’t _need_ glasses. My eyes get tired sometimes, that’s all.”

She _does_ need glasses. I sometimes think Agatha is the most stubborn person I’ve met. Worse than Baz. Worse than Penny. Worse than me even.  

Penny whispers something to me. Probably to pay attention. I’m not listening to the lesson. I’m concentrating all my effort on staying awake. I spent yesterday practicing my sword poses, even though my muscles were still screaming from the goblin beheadings. I felt like I needed to. I keep feeling like I’ll need to be prepared for something, like something bigger than goblins is coming. And I keep having this vivid nightmare about the Humdrum. Something just doesn’t feel right this term.

Miss Possibelf turns to write on the board. I’m not entirely sure what we are focusing on today. Maybe syllabic consonant words? Pointless for me, really. It doesn’t matter if I know when a consonant replaces a vowel in a syllable, my spell still isn’t going to come out right.

I stare at the back of Baz’s head. He has his hair slicked back, as usual, but I can see the start of a rogue strand of hair at the nape of his neck. I get a strange sense of pleasure from it, because I know it will piss him off.  Sometimes, usually only in the morning when he hasn’t brushed it back yet, his hair falls in a lazy wave across his face. It looks softer like that. Better, I would say. Not that I would tell him. He doesn’t need to look any better than he already does. Agatha would really leave me for him then.

I say I shouldn’t be thinking about goblins, but I’m thinking about goblins because I’ve been trying not to think about the Yuletide Ball. I had to add it to my list. Only, I’ve never very been good at not thinking about _anything_ related to Baz. He’s like a crushing weight on my chest. Always there. Even when I don’t want it.

I still can’t figure out what he wanted that night. What game he was getting at. Why dance with me, and bloody place his hands like that, if he still wants to kill me? I don’t get it. I don’t get _him_. Maybe he’s part of this feeling I have, the uneasiness and sense of impending doom. ( _Merlin_. I sound like him. Baz would major in theatrics if he could).

“Mr. Snow?”

I snap my eyes to Miss Possibelf. She looks unimpressed, like that wasn’t her first time calling my name. Baz turns his head slightly, just enough for me to notice. He curls his lip in a sneer.

I blush deeply.

“Yes?” I say, because I have no idea if she was asking a question.

She sighs, wearily. I really like Miss Possibelf, and I think she likes me too. But, she likes me, Simon. Not me the student. I’m a hopeless student. I can tell I’m testing her patience.

“Do you need to switch seats?” She asks.

“Uh, no? I mean, no, thank you—sorry.” I mumble.

Baz shakes his head and I glare at him, feeling my magic tingle at the surface of my skin.

“Then,” she pauses and looks to Agatha, “I suggest you stop staring at Miss Wellbelove.” I drop my head and she sighs. “Please pay attention, Mr. Snow, or I’ll make you sit up front with me, and Agatha will be moved to another class. And if you think I can’t do that, try me.” She raises an eyebrow, and I blush more. It’s like being told off by your grandmother. Everyone laughs quietly, as Agatha turns to give me a look I know means I’ve mortified her.

Baz rolls his eyes. He’s going to give me hell about this later. I keep glaring at him, my magic pouring from my fingers. I can already picture when I walk into our room. He’ll be laying across his bed, making a big show out of reading some stupid book, and then he’ll raise an eyebrow at me and go:

_“No wonder you’re failing your lessons, Snow.”_

_“If only you could major in unattractive gawking, Snow. You would actually have a shot at passing.”_

_“Snow, where’s your lovely girlfriend? Off finding a less embarrassing boyfriend? Shall I put my name forward?”_

Penny elbows me in the ribs. It’s like she knows I’m ranting about Baz in my head. She’s told me I’m not allowed to talk about him anymore. I _could_ keep going. I have an entire list of things I can hear Baz saying in his annoyingly smooth voice.

“Sorry.” I say to Miss Possibelf. “I’m paying attention… now.”

Everyone laughs again. Baz gives Agatha a look. A look that implies I’m an idiot and she wouldn’t have to put up with this crap if he were her boyfriend. I go back to glaring. I feel like I should tell him I _wasn’t_ staring at Agatha. I don’t know why. The correction won’t matter to him. I suppose just to rattle him. So for once I can unnerve the great Basilton Pitch before he unnerves me.


	16. Year Six: Nightmares

**Year 6: April**

**BAZ**

I wake up to a freezing cold room, which isn’t unusual. Snow would cast a spell for an indoor blizzard in our room if he could.

What is unusual is the deep groaning coming from Snow’s bed. I’ve grown accustomed to Snow’s repertoire of nightmares, but this one sounds different. It _feels_ different. There’s a pulling in the air, a dryness. I look over to his bed. He’s even more curled into himself than usual, his blankets already tossed to the floor. He twists and lets out a fevered whimper. He sounds like a wounded animal.

I consider going back to sleep. I’ve never bothered to help Snow out of a nightmare before. But he whimpers again and mumbles something into his pillow. He is pouring out heat and magic. It feels like the entire room is going to combust, and I refuse to have Snow kill me by accident.

“Snow,” I call to him. He doesn’t respond. There is an itching in my throat, a dryness running through my veins, different from his cross. This feels like the Humdrum. I close my eyes and try to call for my magic, nothing happens. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel the fire. I only feel thirsty.

“ _Snow_.” I say louder. He still doesn’t respond. I would throw a book at him if the Anathema wouldn’t mistake it for me trying to harm him. Snow _did_ throw a book at me once, in first year. His hand was frozen for three days. After that we both learned not to chance it inside our room. (Outside has always been fair game).

The Anathema is something I’ve never quite been able to figure out (and how Bunce keeps getting in our room). The magic that powers it is unusual. In theory it should be sentient in order to work. Because there are multiple ways to hurt someone. It doesn’t have to be as simple as a punch. And I wonder if it can make the distinction. Would the Anathema intervene if I kissed Snow so hard he bruised? Not that it would ever happen. But, I think about it, and I wonder. I wonder if it sees pain as pain (which would be a more plausible theory if Snow hadn’t been causing me horrendous pain almost since we met).

Snow wails out a high-pitched, “ _Stop_!”

Crowley. I curse him as I get out of my bed and walk over to his. He’s going to wake the entire building if he keeps screaming, and everyone will assume I’ve done something. While no one believes Snow’s rants about vampirism, they all believe I’m capable of murder.

I don’t know how to wake someone up from a night terror. Snow tried to wake me once. I know he saw my fangs, filling my mouth as I whined pathetically in my sleep. He shook my shoulder and I nearly bit him when I opened my eyes and saw his stupid pious face leaning over me. He took a step back, eyes wide, mouth open, as I snarled at him to fuck off.

He hasn’t tried to wake me since.

Now when I wake up from nightmares he’s usually sitting quietly on his bed watching me. We don’t talk about it.

I clear my throat, it still feels so dry, as I place my hands on either side of Snow’s shoulders and gently shake him. His skin is like fire.

He whimpers and tries to twist away from me.

“Come on, Snow. Wake up. It’s a nightmare.” I say, a little exasperated. I push more firmly into his shoulders.

He startles me when he snaps his eyes open. They are the same ordinary blue, but they are lacking their usual warmth. They are cold. And lifeless. And it looks all wrong on his face.

“Snow?” I say.

He growls, and pushes forward, towards me, reaching for my throat. He slams me into the ground before I even have time to register what the fuck is happening. I try to throw him off me, but I can’t get him to budge. He pins me under his thighs and presses all his weight into me. (This isn’t the time, but I can’t help but think about the number of times I’ve wanted this. I’ve always wanted to be pinned under his weight).

“Snow,” I hiss at him. Something is wrong. Snow is strong, but he shouldn’t be stronger than me.

“Stop!” He yells back.

“Snow, it’s _me,_ ” I say. Which is an entirely asinine thing to say, given our history.

I give his face a good shove with my palm. He growls and his hands come reaching for me again. (Seriously, where the fuck is the Anathema now?). I finally manage to grab his wrists and push him off me. This time I pin him under my weight. (Another thousand well versed fantasies cross my mind, because I’m disturbed).

He starts to thrash violently.

“Stop. Stop. _Stop_!” He screams. I hold him tight, his cold eyes penetrating. I push harder against his wrists. His magic curls around me, twisting up my body, causing me to shake. I don’t let go of him. I try to brush off the dryness, the hunger inside of me. It gets replaced with his magic every few breathes. It’s pouring around us. I feel like I’m the tinder and Snow is the match.

“Snow. It’s me. Wake up. You’re here. In our room— you’re okay.”  I say this to him over and over, keeping the pressure on him.

Finally he quiets beneath me.

“ _Stop_ ,” he says again. But, this time I know he means me.

I sit back and release him from my grip. The thickness from the air leaves, the itching, and scratching at my throat weakens.

“All right?” I rasp.

“Fine,” he mumbles. He won’t look at me.

“Snow—“

“It was him. The Humdrum. In my dream… it was him. I was fighting him, and there was this burning in my stomach. I went to bed hungry… that first time. It was like that. The burning. It wouldn’t stop. And then there was dryness, and itching....”

His words come out in a rush, and then suddenly he stops, jerking towards me, his blue eyes wide. I scoot away from him, expecting another attack, instead he stops inches from my face.

“Did I hurt you?” He exhales quickly, softly. His voice is intoxicating, and I can’t respond, because he’s so close. His breath is hot on my face, heavy and smoky from his magic, stale from sleep.

“Christ, _Baz_! Did I hurt you?” He shouts. 

I shake my head. “I’m fine, Snow. You didn’t go off.”

His eyes relax and he slumps back, away from me. I can think again.

“The itching feeling, it was here,” I say quietly.

“The Humdrum?”

“I assume.”

“ _Fuck_.”

He stands, grunting to himself, pacing the room. He stops in front of the window and pushes it open wider. He leans out and starts looking across the grounds.

“Snow, that’s not going to do anything.”

He leans back inside and whips around to face me, his chest heaving, his hair a worse tangle of curls than usual. He’s a fucking mess. When he speaks his words come out in a manic jumble. “Baz, what if someone got hurt? What if someone is hurt? I need to—“

“No.” I cut him off. “You don’t _need_ to do anything. If someone were hurt, if it were an attack we would know already. There is nothing for you to do but wait for the Mage, or whomever you’re reporting to these days. Someone will come for you. Isn’t that how it works as the Chosen One? You just get summoned as needed.”

He glares at me. “Don’t you care?”

I roll my eyes. He’s so bloody thick. _“Of course I care,”_ I want to scream at him. “ _Why do you think I don’t want you wandering around outside with some grandeur ideas of fighting off the Humdrum? I care. I want you here, in our room, where I know you’re safe.”_

“No, Snow. I really don’t. You can care enough for the both of us.” He grumbles and turns back to lean even further out the window. I sigh, annoyed at him. Not that he cares. _Let him fall out the window_. It would make my life a fuck of a lot easier.

And then he does actually slip, his bare feet losing their grip and his body leaning too far forward. The fucking idiot. And of course I catch him, because I’m weak, and because I care. I care so fucking much.

“Fuck!” He shouts. I grab the back of his shirt just as his stomach goes sliding down the stone ledge of the tower. I hold him, letting him lean out the window for a second longer than strictly necessary.

“Baz!” He swings his arms wildly and tries to twist up towards me. “Pull me up!” 

 _Like I have any other choice._ “I’m _trying,"_ I sneer at him. "Stop fucking squirming. Crowley, how many scones do you eat?” I yank harder on his shirt, hearing the fabric stretch in protest. I keep a tight hold on him until his feet come back to our room and I am sure he is able to steady himself. Then I release him and take a step back.

He leans forward, panting, his face red, his stretched shirt hanging open cruelly at the neck so I can see the moles across his chest. He frowns and straightens, touching at the collar. “You ruined it," he whispers to me. I stare at him in disbelief. “This was my favourite shirt.” He narrows his eyes, like I've done it on purpose.

“It looks like everything else you own.” I snap at him.

He glares. “ _This_ is red, I only own one red shirt, Baz.” He scolds me, like I should fucking know this. (I mean, I do know he only has one red shirt, but I’m not about to admit that).

I sigh aggressively. “Are you fucking kidding me? Is this a serious conversation? I think you meant to say ‘thank you, Baz, for saving my sorry arse’.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah, I do. I mean, yes. Thank you. Not that my arse is sorry. But, also — you _ruined_ my shirt.” He picks up the fabric by the collar and holds it out to me. “See,” he growls.

I roll my eyes. “It looks exactly like it did before, better even.”

He laughs angrily (something only Snow can manage). “You would be tossing me out that very window if I stretched one of your jumpers like this.” He whinges theatrically, trying to straighten out the ruined fabric with his hands.

I shake my head. “Yes, but my clothes cost a small fortune. Certainly more than your ratty old t-shirts. Where did you even get that? The bin?”

He snorts and pulls at his curls. “ _Jesus_. You’re maddening, you know that, right? Next time just let me fall. I’ll save myself.”

I sneer at him. “Snow, we both know you’re not capable of saving yourself. Besides, the last thing I need when you drown in the moat is someone saying I tried to feed you to the merwolves.”

He stops fussing over his stupid shirt and looks at me, his eyes wide, and his mouth open. “Baz, you _have_ tried.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Tried what?”

He leaves his mouth hanging open, half a thought hanging from his lips. It’s always just half a thought with Snow. "Close your mouth," I tell him angrily. He ignores me, but I notice the beginning of a flush at the base of his neck.

“You don’t remember? Third year? You tried to feed me to the merwolves?”

“Is that a question?” I raise my eyebrow further at him and he looks away, embarrassed.

He crosses his arms, his lips pouting. “You literally pushed me off the fucking drawbridge. I couldn't even swim, Baz.”

I try keep my face impassive. I actually didn't know he couldn't swim.

"Well," I drawl, buying time as I collect myself. "Can you swim now?"

His face twists and his eyebrows furrow. "What?"

"Can. You. Swim. Now?" I repeat slower.

"Yeah, but that's not—"

"So it was more of a favour if anything."

" _Ha_!" He shouts. "So you admit you pushed me then?" He points an accusing finger towards my chest. I frown at his finger until he drops it. Then I take a deep inhale. “I didn't say that. _And_ , let's be honest, Snow, my plans are usually a little more creative than just shoving you off things."

"The stairs." He says simply.

I frown again. “I think your magic is making you delusional. I've never pushed you off anything. Are we done? I'm tired." I say with as much boredom as I can manage. I crawl back into bed, ignoring his magic charging the air with the angry scent of smoke, and green earth.

“Fine.” He huffs, getting back into his own bed. But not before taking off his shirt and tossing it to the ground, aggressively, like it will somehow get his point across. I look away from his bare chest. _Crowley_ , I never fucking win.

“Do you actually not remember, or are you trying to get me going?” He whispers. I roll towards the wall, and close my eyes, trying to breathe through the smoke of his magic. He’s clearly thinking too hard.

“I don’t know, Snow. Is it working? _Have_ I got you going?”

He groans. “Fuck off, Baz. I know you remember.”

“I really don’t.”

I’m lying. I do remember. Of course I do. It was after my first football match. We lost. Snow watched the entire game. Every time I looked to the sidelines my eyes automatically found his face, even when I wasn’t trying to find him. He stood there, staring me down, a mix of envy and admiration on his face that pissed me off, and threw off my concentration.

After the match an entire group of spectators and team members made the walk back to the grounds together. Watford was hosting a season kick off dinner. It was tradition, apparently. I didn’t want to go. I was sweaty, and tired, and in a foul mood. We lost. Snow had distracted me. There was nothing to celebrate. But, Fiona was at the match and she wanted to go, and she insisted I go with her.

_“I’ll look ridiculous without you there, Basil. Everyone will assume I’m up to something nefarious.”_

_“You are.”_ I had pointed out. I didn’t doubt for a minute that she had something planned for Snow. She always did. She winked in response.

By the time Dev leaned over to me to whisper about Snow I was already spoiling for a fight. It was too many convenient circumstances. “He wouldn’t shut up about how it’s your fault he can’t play. Called you a cheater. Said you would probably play dirty too.”

(I don’t play dirty. Not on the pitch).

Fiona raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to let him talk about you like that? Pitches aren’t cheaters, Basil.”

“Fuck no. I’m going to teach him a fucking lesson.” I hissed between clenched teeth. I was putting on a show.

I lengthened my strides to catch up with Snow. He didn’t notice. He never does. (How something hasn’t snuck up and killed him yet is a fucking enigma). He had his hands in his pockets, his head down, like he was trying to blend into the crowd. Bunce was yammering away about something (it was likely magical politics, she’s obsessed). I didn’t say anything. I made my feet as light as possible. I cut between them like melted butter. Even Bunce barely felt me passing, and by the time she did, I had already shoved Snow off the side of the bridge in one effortless push.

Bunce nearly killed me. She would have. If Snow hadn’t yelled at her. “ _Penelope_ , forget him. The bloody merwolves are — fuck! I can see one. _Penelope_!” He dunked under the water and broke the surface again with a pathetic flailing of arms and spluttering of water. He was truly panicking. (I now realize his panic was because he couldn't swim. Which, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?).

She glared at me, and then turned her ring to Snow. **“Row, row, row your boat!”** She shouted.

It takes a lot of magic to make a boat out of water. It was impressive. But, it also meant she didn’t have enough magic left to curse me.

Fiona loved the entire scene. Especially Snow struggling to climb into the boat while a group of his peers watched and laughed. Ruthless bunch, magicians. No one but Bunce even tried to help him. Merwolves won’t kill you, but they will bite—they are nasty little buggers. Their bites are toxic too. Snow would have been out cold for a week if one had gotten close enough.

“Baz?” Snow says softly. He doesn’t sound angry anymore.

“ _What_?” I hiss.

“Do you think the Humdrum was really here? Like, why didn’t he attack? Or, was he… you know… um, here just for me. Like, can he connect with my dreams now? Is that a thing…? _Fuck_. Because it just felt so fucking real.”

I exhale. His voice is shaky. He sounds scared, and vulnerable. I don’t like how it makes my chest tighten. I don’t like that he’s offering me this, giving me the opportunity to be _something_ to him. Because I can’t. I just can’t with him, not yet.

Maybe one day.  After this is all over, and it’s been years, and Snow is married to Wellbelove, and I’m… whatever I am. Maybe at some embarrassing reunion when we’ve all had too much wine, and everyone wants to relive their youth. When Snow has fine lines around his eyes, and maybe a stomach too soft because he won’t stop eating fucking scones. Maybe then.

I’ll pull him aside, and he’ll stare me down like he always does, questioning my motives, worried I’m going to set him off, or steal his wife. Then I’ll grin and I’ll whisper: “Snow, I’ve always fancied you.”

He’ll growl and tell me to fuck off and I’ll smirk and say smoothly, firmly: “ _Simon_ , I’ve always been in love with you. I love you.” I’ll kiss him. Once. Softly. Before he gets the chance to take a swing at me.

And then I’ll walk away, leaving him with his mouth hanging open staring after me. Still in disbelief. Still trying to work through the trick of it. And then he’ll finally know, and everything will make sense, and he’ll hate me for telling him, because he won’t ever stop thinking about it. It will drive him half mad. And when he dies, when he’s old, and fat, and _done_ , he’ll come back and haunt me, because he won’t be able to find peace. He’ll still be thinking about it. He’ll die thinking about me, and I’ll be fucking happy about it.

This entire thought sequence is needlessly excessive, and dramatic, and hopelessly cruel. Snow does that to me.

“Baz?” He whispers again. I’ve forgotten to answer him.

“Snow,” I whisper back harshly. “I don’t fucking know. This is your battle, your villain, not mine. Besides, even if I knew the Humdrum’s big, evil plan why would I tell you? What purpose could that possibly serve me? I’m your nemesis, _remember_. Or have you forgotten what that word means?”

“Right.” He sighs heavily, like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. Which I suppose he does.


	17. Year Seven: Welcome Back

**Year Seven: September**

**SIMON**

I jolt awake when the door to my room slams open. My eyes focus on Baz. Ah, _our_ room now again I suppose.

He walks over to his bed, not even giving me a second glance. I quickly check under the covers to make sure I have trousers on. I can feel them, but still. Best to make sure sometimes. I throw off my blanket and sit up, staring at Baz as he starts to unpack.

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. He looks good. I mean, older. That’s stupid. He is older. I just mean it looks like his summer went well. His hair is a little longer. It works well for his face. I touch my own curls, still growing in after I shaved my head in June.

He glances over his shoulder at me and I drop my hand.

“What are you doing?” He sneers. His voice is the same. Deep, smooth, cool. My stomach twists, but I push out the feeling. It’s stupid to envy someone’s voice.

“Nothing?” I snap.

He laughs. “Snow, it’s been five minutes. I know you missed me, but can you save the obsessive staring for a little longer. It’s creepy.”

I flounder. I go to say something but I can’t manage anything but a rasp. I start to blush as I sit back on my heels.

“I’m not. _No_.” I shake my head.

Baz laughs again. “Crowley, how I’ve missed your banter and wit.”

I blush more, take a deep breath, and then I glare. “How was your summer? Engage in any satanic rituals?” I ask, trying, and failing, to gain the upper hand. Baz looks at me suspiciously, which makes me roll my eyes. I’m the one who should be suspicious.

“Well?” I demand.

He smirks. “Dreadfully boring without you to torment. And no satanic rituals. I’m saving those for this year.”

I growl at him.  “I knew you would be plotting something already.”

Baz narrows his eyes. “Yes, Snow. You caught me, _again_. This is me plotting.”

I shake my head. “You should try being nice.”

He raises an eyebrow. “This _is_ me being nice. You’re the one who accused me of a satanic ritual. Do you really think I would be into something so clichéd?”

I pause. He’s right. He wouldn’t be into that. Baz is obscure. All of his tastes, his references, even his jokes. Half the time I have to remember what he’s said to ask Penny about later. I nod along, and pretend I can keep up, but truthfully I can’t.

Whenever I do ask Penny about something Baz has said I try to keep the conversation casual, I try to play it off like I overheard someone else talking about the topic. But, Penny always knows.

 _“Baz said this?”_ She’ll ask, always with a hint of admiration and resentment. (Penny hates that Baz is so well read, and brilliant, and bloody talented at just about everything. “ _He’s already an heir, does he really need to be smart too?”_ )

_“No, I said someone.”_

_“Yeah, so Baz.”_

I need to make less intelligent friends. Not that Baz is my friend. But, a proximity hazard of being his roommate is interacting with him on a daily basis. Even if it is just to roll my eyes at a snarky comment.

“I’m more into dark magic.” Baz rolls out lazily.

I stop thinking and jerk my head towards him. _Did he just say—?_

“Something erotic. Sexy. Something that would cause your pure little heart to shake with fear.”

I stare at him, blinking stupidly.

“That’s not funny,” I say.

He holds my gaze, cocking his eyebrow. “Who said anything about being funny?”

My heart starts beating faster. He can’t be serious? “You don’t do dark magic, Baz.” I tell him firmly. I would know.

He smirks, and then drops his voice menacingly. “You have no idea what I’m capable of, Snow.”

I feel myself start to blush, feel the heat creeping up to my face. Why does he always do this? Why can’t we have a normal roommate relationship of civil pleasantries? I’m sure even Penny and Trixie manage to ask each other how their summers were without all the undertones and accusations.

Although, what undertones exactly is Baz getting at? He’s making dark magic sound alluring, sensual… _Stop. Stop. Stop._

I shake my head.  “You’re mad,” I say shakily. “No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”

Baz starts to laugh hysterically.

I glare at him. “Why is _that_ funny?”

Baz glances at me, his face unreadable. His grey eyes bore into me, and I lift my chin and stare him down. I refuse to look away.

He relaxes his features. “Snow, you’re so thick. I always forget over break.” He’s shaking his head fondly, like he’s said something nice about me. Which, he hasn’t.

I open my mouth to insult him back, but he’s heading towards the door, already halfway into the hall. He stops at the last second, his hand still on the frame, and turns back to me.

He smirks. “I really did miss you,” he says softly. His eyes flicking over my face for half a second before he closes the door, leaving me sitting on my bed, with my mouth hanging open.

I get up and head to our bathroom. It’s still too hot in the tower from a summer without the windows open. I turn on the tap and look in the mirror. I realize my hair is a mess, from when I was raking through my curls, and I have drool on the side of my face. Merlin. I’m always so embarrassing. Why did he have to come back while I was napping?

I stick my entire head under the stream of cold water until I feel my nerves start to steady.  Until I can think about what he must have meant. He must be plotting something. I replay how he said he missed me, trying to hear the sarcasm, or cruelness, or joke. But, I can’t.

It makes it worse.

He’s getting better at this. He’s unnerved me in record time.


	18. Year Seven: Dreaming of Darkness

**Year Seven: February  
**

**BAZ**

The room is dark when I enter, which is strange since it’s only half three. I go to turn on the lights, but the switch doesn’t work. Snow’s a lump on his bed.

I keep flicking the switch, until I’m even annoying myself.

“They’re spelled.” Snow mumbles irritably. “It’s **dreaming of darkness**. They won’t work until—“

“You stop sulking,” I snap.

Snow doesn’t engage. “Yeah,” he mumbles.

I sit on the edge of my bed, loosening my tie and taking off my shoes. I sigh. “Snow, this isn’t just your room.”

I watch as he curls into himself more, bringing the covers over his head. “You don’t need the light, Baz.”

He’s right. But, that’s not the point.

Also, **dreaming of darkness** is an advanced spell. One I wouldn’t trust Snow with. One wrong twist of your wrist, or stress of a vowel and all of a sudden you’re a literal living cloud of gloom. You have to actually feel genuine happiness in order for the spell to break, you can’t be spelled happy, which means there is no counter incantation. It’s one of the few spells I would consider too risky to even try.

“Snow—“I start, intent on asking him how he managed something so advanced.

He sighs. “Penny cast the spell.”

I frown. “You have to cast it yourself.”

I hear the covers rustle as he shrugs. “I guess I was desperate enough.”

“Crowley, this is just depressing,” I say harshly. Because it is. And weak. “We all have bad days, Snow. You can’t just turn our room into a fucking cave of darkness every time your feelings get hurt.”

He snorts, a throaty sound. “I thought you would like the darkness.”  He rolls towards me, letting the covers fall from his face. I have to look away. He’s been crying.

“What happened?” I ask before I can help myself.

“You didn’t hear?” There’s a bitterness in his tone that makes me feel uneasy.

\---

**SIMON**

Worsegers attacked. That’s what happened. I eye Baz suspiciously. He should know. I went off, and it’s all anyone can talk about.

I didn’t mean to.

I tried to control myself.

I did.

I _really_ did.

Merlin, I tried so fucking hard it hurt.

Penny, and Agatha, and I were all walking in the woods. It was supposed to be a nice afternoon walk. Something to get the circulation flowing, to stop my incessant worrying and thinking. Because it’s February, and cold, and everyone is miserable, and Penny says I’ve been looking lifeless.

Agatha suggested we try and find the wood nymphs, she was certain they would be willing to share a secret or two with us. It was oddly adventurous of her. But, then again, they like her. They hate me.

We didn’t end up finding them. A clan of worsegers, with shaggy black and white fur, and sharp teeth came storming at us instead when we crossed into the first clearing of the woods. Worsegers are double the size of Normal badgers, and way nastier. They’ve been known to kill mages. Which is why they aren’t supposed to be in the woods.

As soon as the clan appeared Penny started shouting spells. She never hesitates.

 **“Nothing to see here!”** She fired off first.

She bought us time, as we all sprinted deeper into the trees. The worsegers couldn’t see us, but they could still hear us, our feet loudly crunching on the snow.

Agatha and Penny both managed to cast, **the lady’s not for turning.** It’s great for combat (if you’re a woman). It gives you an iron resolve, so you have the strength and determination to get through. Not to mention, any subsequent spells you cast are usually more powerful. Penny’s mum actually created the spell in her eighth year.

Anyway, it left me completely fucked, because I couldn’t manage to cast anything.

They both shouted, **“head over heels!”** As the worsegers ran closer. A few fell away, but there were just too many.

I tried using my wand. Tried every spell I could think of. But, every time my wand would spark, and my wrist would cramp and then nothing would happen.

“Never mind, Simon!” Penny had shouted at me.

I had only wanted to help. I kept trying to swallow down my magic, which is probably why I couldn’t get the spells to come out right. I was trying to cast without really calling for my power, without really feeling the magic, or understanding the words. I was trying to cast without thinking, so I wouldn’t go off, only magic doesn’t work like that.

Actually, magic just doesn’t work for me period.

I called for my sword instead.

When Agatha tripped I knew I wouldn’t be able to hold off much longer. I was getting worked up, and stressed, and worried— I could see the blade of my sword start to glow.

Baz would have remained calm. Not for the first time in crisis, I wished he was around. He would have set the vile things on fire with a fluid twist of his hand. Or, cast a single spell to render them all useless. He’s brilliant at combat spells, especially if he’s saving himself.

Before I could tell myself to calm down there were too many furry faces with beady eyes blinking at us in all directions.

I went off as one of the worsegers came flying at Penny’s face. We all woke up in a pile of ash, and dirt, and snow. The worsegers were gone, and we were shaking from the cold. As usual, the only proof there had been an attack at all was the unmistakable, shameful scent of smoke. The smell of my magic. Of my failure. I can’t fucking stand the smell, and it _always_ lingers.

I felt like I could go off again. Penny looked like she was going to throw up. Agatha _was_ throwing up.

I can still feel the aches in my body, the deep muscle tissue bruising.

I walked Agatha and Penny back to Cloister’s. Agatha wouldn’t let me take her to the nurse, even though she hadn’t stopped shaking. “I’m fine, Simon,” she exhaled through her nose. “I was feeling under the weather earlier. We shouldn’t have gone outside. Everyone’s been getting the flu.”

I don’t believe her. I could see how she flinched when I tried to hug her. I would be afraid of me too.

At tea everyone was whispering.

Everyone knew I went off.

That I couldn’t control myself— _again_. Story of my fucking life.

“Over some bloody worsergers!” Someone had laughed. Like it was funny.

It was Dev.

So I know Baz knows.

Penny was kind enough to cast **dreaming of darkness** for me. Well, only after I begged, and promised I wouldn’t hold it against her if something went askew. I wanted to be in the dark, to let myself wallow for a bit. To think. I need to think sometimes. It's easier in the dark, and I wasn't about to wander into the bloody Catacombs and risk Baz being there.

Only, Baz is here now. Ruining everything. Treating me like I’m overreacting.

I glare at him.

“Leave me alone,” I say angrily.

Baz sighs. “Snow, are you all right?”

“What do you care?” I snap.

“I don’t,” he says evenly. “Just trying to speed along your moping so the lights will come back on.”

I want to tell him I hate him, but I don’t. I don’t have the energy to argue. Baz sits on his bed and opens a book. He lights the end of his wand and holds it to the pages. It’s ridiculous. I know he doesn’t need it. He’s doing it for show. That’s how disciplined he is. He never slips up. Not even in front of me.

I sit up, feeling Penny’s magic sitting heavily in my stomach. Spells attached to your emotions are rather finicky. I wouldn’t trust anyone but Penny to cast one on me.

“Baz?” I say quietly. 

“What?”

“Do you remember in, uh, fifth year, with the chimera?”

“Why?” He asks, still looking intently at his open book.

“I wondered if—like, I mean, I want to know—did it hurt? When I went off. Did it hurt you?”

He stops reading and looks over to me, his face glowing from the end of his wand. I bite my lip, it sometimes helps when I'm about to cry. I’m so tired of feeling like I can hurt people.

“I can handle you, Snow,” he sneers.

I shake my head. “That isn’t what I asked. You know it isn’t.”

He’s silent for a few seconds before I hear his deep inhale. “It didn’t hurt. But, I felt it. And I won’t lie, it wasn’t exactly pleasant.”

I feel the tears slipping from my eyes. “I don’t—I _hate_ —”I can’t get the words out.

“I know.” Baz says softly. “But, you have to remember, you saved me. Today you saved Wellbelove and Bunce. You save people.”

I shake my head. “I hurt people.”

Baz snorts. “Mages, Snow. Not people. We can handle a little magic, even yours.”

He’s being nice, and I’m too tired to try and think through the trick of it. I pretend he’s being genuine. That there is no ulterior motive. I let his words comfort me.

I exhale slowly, “Thank you.”

I anticipate a sneer, like usual when I sincerely thank him for something. Instead, his expression turns serious. “Snow, you’ll be all right. You just need to learn to let things go, some of it. A little. You don’t have to hold onto everything. It doesn’t always have to be everything at once. I can help you with that.”

“What?” I say, utterly confused.

Baz looks at me, his face severe, and his long legs crossed.

“I can help you. If you want. Give Bunce a bit of a break.”

“Like, with my magic?”

Baz rolls his eyes. “Yes, _idiot_.”

I shake my head, and try not to laugh. Now I know he’s being an arse. “Why would you help me?”

He sighs, irritated. “So you don’t set the whole bloody school on fire. In case you forgot, my mother’s here.”

I frown, his mother? And then I remember when I finally caught up to him in the Catacombs in fifth year. When he was drunk, and more than a little terrifying. The bones, and tombs. I vaguely recall him telling me everyone who dies at Watford is buried in the Catacombs. And then I remember the Watford Attacks. His mother died here. This will always be her place.

“Of course,” I say quietly. I know talking about this must upset him. I can’t imagine losing my mother. It’s not the same never having met her. I don’t understand what I am missing the way he does.

A faint dim from the window leaks into the room. Enough for me to see Baz’s face better. He looks surprised.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll let you help me.”

Baz laughs. “Nice try, Chosen one. I’m not helping until you ask properly, without the arrogance.”

I narrow my eyes at him but he only smirks in return.

“All right, you fucking tit,” I half laugh. “Will you _please_ help me?”

Honestly, I could use the help, and Baz is brilliant with spells. Plus, it would be nice to offer Penny a bit of a break.

“On one condition,” Baz says seriously.

“Yeah?”

“We don’t tell anyone.”

I frown. “Why?”

Baz shrugs, his slim shoulders moving gracefully as he lowers his gaze. “I have a reputation to maintain.”

This time I laugh loudly. A full belly laugh. “What about _my_ reputation?”

“As far as I’m concerned, this will be an improvement.”

“Fine. Fine. We won’t tell anyone.” I grin at him, but he only looks away.

The room opens to the fading evening sun. A golden hue basking across the floor and our beds. It’s nice, and comforting. A washed out colour that makes me feel at ease.

I think I catch Baz smiling properly, but he drops his lips into a scowl before I can be sure.

“Good. About time you became less of a deathtrap, Snow.”


	19. Year Seven: April Showers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note, this where I start to diverge the most from canon events!

**Year Seven: March**

**SIMON**

“I give up, this was a terrible idea.”

“Crowley, don’t tell me you’re a quitter, how utterly ordinary of you.”

“Fuck off, Baz. I’m tired!” I shout at him.

He moves so quickly I don’t have time to register his movements until I’m slammed against a tree and his wand is pointing at my neck. He’s too close. Yet, I don’t move. I stare directly into his eyes as bark scratches at my back.

“Do you think,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “the Humdrum, or a goblin, or anyone else is going to care when you’re tired, Snow?”

He presses the tip of his wand against my throat. It's more irritating than intimidating. I roll my eyes.

“Of course not, but you’re not them,” I say, trying to contain my laughter, as I swat away his wand.

Baz frowns at me. “Do you think I won’t hurt you?”

I shrug. “Not right now. I think you could. I _know_ you could. But, right now? No. I don’t think you will. I’m not afraid of you, if that's what you're looking for.”

He shakes his head. “And that, Chosen One, is why you’re going to get yourself killed. You’re maddeningly stupid.”

I grin, and Baz shoves me harder against the tree.

“Stop that,” he hisses.

“What?” I laugh.

“Grinning. You’re fucking insane, Snow.”

I shrug again. “No more than you.”

He softens his grip, and drops his wand hand.

“Again,” he says coldly, methodically, pointing towards the clearing.

I sigh and brush past him to the spot we are using to practice. The tips of my fingers are starting to go numb from the cold. We've been out here for hours, but Baz refuses to leave until I get at least one spell right. It's been an afternoon of bruising my ego. The tosser is probably enjoying himself, likely making notes on all the spells I'm inadequate at to report back to his family.

Although, I've recently had a revelation of sorts. One that I haven't shared with anyone, not even Penny. I don't want to jinx it (and it's not like it's the sort of information that does anyone any good). I have a theory that Baz isn't as interested in killing me as he lets on. Does he hate me? Yes. Would he still throw me down a flight of stairs? Likely. Will he still _have_ to kill me eventually? Absolutely. I'm not _that_ thick, I know Baz will do whatever biding his family demands when it comes to overthrowing the Mage, and I know that biding will likely involve my death. I've prepared for that.

But, does Baz _want_ to kill me? I don't think he does. I think he's going to struggle when the time comes. I don't mean physically either. He could overpower me, easily (something I don't like to admit to him too often). I mean emotionally, or morally, ethically? Whatever. I just think he'll struggle. Baz may be evil, and plotting, but he's also a vampire who never hurts humans, and as far as I know he's never killed anyone (rats not included). I think it will be hard for him. Merlin, I _hope_ it will be hard for him.

It's taken seven years for me to realize it, but there is a distinct pattern to Baz's antics. He's awful, but he never follows through. Even now, he's currently striking distance from me, and I'm completely lost in my own head (and he's being creepily quiet behind me, he might not even be there anymore for all I know). Which is exactly my point. I make it easy for him. So incredibly easy. And he never takes the opportunity. He could kill me right now, in this very second, before I finish blinking. 

I frown. "Baz?"

He sighs, loudly. "What?"

"If you were to kill me, would you make it quick?"

I hear the toe of his boot kicking at the snow. "You ask the most ridiculous questions."

"I don't think it's that ridiculous given our history. I was just thinking—"

"Crowley, Snow. I'm freezing my fucking arse off so you can practice magic, not so you can think."

I huff. "Well, I'm not going to start practicing until you answer me."

"All right. I'll indulge your entirely absurd questioning. In fact, I'll do one better and cut through all the bullshit— how would you _like_ me to kill you?"

I turn around. "Well, I wouldn't _like_ you to kill me at all. What kind of a fucking question is that?" 

"That's not an option," he says seriously. "You know it's not."

I wait for him to sneer, and to start listing, in great detail, all the ways he _could_ kill me. But, he's still kicking at the snow, with his head down. I swallow. I didn't mean for the conversation to get this dark. (Although, I don't know what I was thinking would happen).

"Okay," I start. "I just want it to be over before I can process the pain of it. So could you, I dunno, make it quick?"

Baz snorts, and then lifts his head to meet my gaze. His eyes look darker than usual today. "Okay, Chosen One. Your wish shall be granted. When the time comes, I'll make it quick."

"Promise?"

He raises an eyebrow at me. "You really are fucking insane."

I shrug.

He sighs. "Yes, it's a promise. You won't feel a thing. Is that what you want to hear?"

I grin stupidly and nod my head. Something about his reassurance makes me feel better. (I really do think I border on more than a little mad most days).

"Anything else, Chosen one? Since I seem to be in your service today," Baz says dryly.

"No. Actually. Yeah... I mean... could you maybe stop calling me _that_?"

This time he grins. "Does it upset you?"

I groan. "Yeah, I mean. I guess it does. I..I just don't like it."

Baz shrugs. "I guess you shouldn't have wasted your wish on a quick death then."

I groan again. "You asked me if there was anything else!"

"Unfortunately, I appear to have run out of good will for the day. Now, _Chosen One,_ try casting again before I officially lose all feeling in my feet."

I glare at him, but nod, turning back around. It's easier for me to cast if I can't see Baz's face. He tries to pretend he's not watching, but I always catch him making weird expressions, and then I doubt myself, and muddle whatever I'm trying to cast.

I close my eyes and think of my magic. I feel a buzz, and I try to channel it.

“Control it, Snow,” Baz grits out a moment later.

“What helpful fucking advice," I say, sarcastically.

He snorts. “ _Everything_ I say is helpful. Especially in this case, because you don’t know when you’ve called for too much magic until someone tells you. You don’t feel it. I do. So, control it. I'm telling you it's too much.”

I glance back at him quickly. He's leaning against a tree, like his legs are about to give out. I know my magic can make people feel weak or drunk sometimes. I would be more concerned if it were someone other than Baz. He can hold his own just fine against my magic (as he likes to remind me).

"Right, sorry," I mumble. Just once I would like him to be wrong about something. Anything.

I exhale and talk to my magic, trying to call some of it back. I don’t tell Baz about this technique. He would never stop laughing if I did.

_Work with me, please. Easy. Only a little. I only need a little. Okay, good. I feel that. Yes. Slowly, run through me slowly. Good._

On my next exhale I lift my left hand. “Work with me,” I whisper.

“That’s not—"

“Shut up!” I growl at Baz.

Another exhale.

I think about the dried, dead grass in my right palm.

_Okay, grass, I’m going to make you turn green, bring you back. It might be scary, since it’s only March, but you’re going to feel spring a little early, okay? It won’t hurt. I don’t think? Does it? Fuck. I should have asked Baz if this will fuck up the earth somehow. No. Shut up, Simon. Okay, ready? Of course you are. Stupid. Okay._

**“April showers,”** I say with genuine conviction, thinking about Baz’s smooth voice casting the same spell earlier. He showed me first, letting a long dead clover grow slowly in his palm. It was impressive, and beautiful to watch. (Not that I told him that).

I don’t open my eyes as I feel my wand jerk. I keep my wrist steady, like Baz told me. I feel the smokiness course through me as my magic collects in my fingers. But, it’s not like it usually is. It flows easily, smoothly. It’s like a constant stream, instead of my usual crashing ocean.

I exhale again. It felt right. I definitely felt the grass in my palm shake. That's good. I think.

Baz starts laughing. “Snow, open your bloody eyes and see what you’ve done.”

My heart sinks with disappointment.

"Fuck," I curse to myself. 

I brace, and prepare to see the forest burning, or the sky cracked and raining umbrellas. I prepare for every possible fuck up but the oasis of colour and life that blazes before me when I open my eyes. I turn slowly. The entire clearing is breathing life. Purple violets, white daises, blue flax, green grass, soft brown earth, moss covered logs, and — _the trees!_ The trees are the best part. All of them around us have sprouted vibrant green leaves, that are now gently rustling in the cold wind. Everything is alive, and breathing. It's... amazing. I'm amazed. Not at myself, but at this. Life. Breathing. Trees.

I turn to face Baz, and he's actually smiling. A real, and proper smile.

“I fucked up,” I say, Because I have, technically.

Baz comes closer to me, shaking his head. “As far as mistakes go, this one isn’t your worst. This is...nice.” He drops his voice to a whisper, "I've always preferred summer."

“But, I didn’t control myself enough. I...I thought I had. It felt…I dunno, different than normal.”

Baz makes a lazy sound in his throat, something between a hmm and a tsk. I eye him carefully. Normally he's all about precision and casting _exactly_ as you intend. My magic must be making him drunk. When he grabs at my wrist, pushing up the sleeve of my jacket, I know my magic must be fucking with him.

" _Oi_ , what are you doing?" I splutter.

He laughs softly. "I'm curious, Snow. I've never seen someone cast something like this before. Your wrist is hot." He drags a finger down the edge of my wand. "So is your wand. Interesting."

"What?"

He catches my eye and lifts an eyebrow. "Do I always have to repeat myself with you? Your wand is hot. As in, burning, as in its temperature has increased, as in—"

"I fucking know what hot means," I snap. "I meant, what's interesting?"

He smirks, and presses his fingers deeper into my skin. "Does your skin always feel like this after you cast?"

I shrug, and Baz sighs irritably. He hates when I don't give him proper answers. But, honestly, I'm not a lab rat. I'm not going to indulge his curiosity.

“Do you feel tired?” He asks, still holding my gaze. “You should. **April showers** is draining. It takes a lot of energy to make life.”

I shake my head. “No. I feel the same.”

Baz gives me a look I can’t quite decipher. 

“ _What_ are you two doing?” A high voice cuts through the clearing and Baz immediately drops my wrist.

“Agatha?” I say, turning towards the sound.

Agatha is standing at the edge of the clearing, looking cold, and annoyed. Her white hair is tucked under a pink hat, and her cheeks and nose are stained red from the crisp air. Baz takes a step away from me. I wait for him to say something clever, or to take control of the conversation so I don't have to say anything at all, but he doesn’t. He looks annoyed too.

"What are you doing out here?" She asks again.

"What are you?" I say.

She narrows her eyes. "Looking for _you_. Penny said she hadn't seen you since lunch. She was worried you were making poor choices. I told her you had promised to stop making a particular poor choice."

I groan. “I, umm, it's nothing like that. I was just walking, and then I kind of accidentally found Baz,” I tell her.

"Okay...so what were you two doing?"

"Baz was, uh, checking my wrist for injury. I punched, a, um, a tree?"

"You punched a tree?" Agatha repeats slowly.

"Er, yes."

She stares blankly at me like she knows I'm lying. It’s a shit lie. Quite possibly the worst I've ever told. But, I can't exactly tell her the truth. I promised Baz I wouldn't.

She tilts her head in disappointment. “ _Simon,_ you promised us.”

I look down, embarrassed. She thinks I was following Baz. Obviously, that's what Penny assumes I'm doing as well. I did promise them I would stop. And I have. It doesn't count when I follow him into the forest after he willingly invites me. It was consensual following.

“It’s not that,” I say quickly, looking to Baz. But, he’s got his hands in his pockets and his chin dipped down into his grey scarf. He’s not paying attention. “I just needed some air, and I was you know, just overthinking, and then I stupidly punched the tree, and then Baz showed up and asked what I was doing, and so he was only making sure I hadn't sprained anything. That's it. It wasn't anything... you look cold. Let’s go back, yeah? It must be almost tea now.”

I exhale, breathless from saying so many words so quickly. Agatha doesn't look convinced. Especially as she brushes her hand against a collection of violets.

“Did you do this?” She asks.

I panic, my heart beating in my fingertips. I can't think of any possible explanation for why after punching a tree I would cast **April Showers.**

“ _No,_ ” Baz says smoothly. I sigh in relief, and then give him a stern look for leaving me to explain everything for so long. The fucking tosser is the most eloquent speaker I know. He gives me a half-smirk and then walks towards Agatha, slowing his stride to pick two white daises. He hands one to Agatha, but I notice he carefully places the other in his pocket. “I did this. Snow isn't capable of creating something this technical, or beautiful."

"Oi, that's not —"

I'm about to defend myself, but Baz turns and glares at me. _Right_. This is him covering. The git. I grit my teeth and try to telepathically insult him, which I think actually works, because he has a stupid amused expression on his face.

Agatha smiles. "Oh, Basil. It’s lovely. Whose it for?”

I frown. “Why does it have to be for anyone?”

“You have to be thinking about someone you love for growing spells this powerful to work. The nymphs always say it takes love to make something grow.” Agatha says, a little _too_ dreamily.

“I didn’t—really? Is that right? I didn’t know that,” I mumble. Because I didn’t. Baz didn’t tell me that when I was casting. Why did it work then? I wasn’t thinking about anyone. Wait? Who was he thinking about? Is Baz in love with someone? I jerk my head towards him. He looks as composed as ever, already shaking his head at me, like he's anticipating what I'm about to ask.

“Baz—"

“It’s an old myth, Snow. Nothing but fodder for the hopeless romantics.”

Agatha giggles. “Maybe, but this still seems like a lot of work if it’s not for someone.”

“Fine,” Baz grins, hawkishly, like he's about to say something I won't like. “It’s for someone I rather fancy.”

I assume he means Agatha, and so does she. I watch as she blushes. Something twists uncomfortably in my stomach. I don't like when he does this. Especially, when we are supposed to be getting on, and he's supposed to be helping me.

"Can you— _agh—_ "

I stop, my words getting stuck in my throat as I lean forward. I cough violently, and take deep inhales, trying to get air. It's suddenly too warm. My cheeks are burning, and my chest feels tight.

"All right?" Baz asks, actually sounding slightly panicked. 

I shake my head.

No.

No.

No.

My stomach twists more, and I feel sweat starting to collect on my skin.

"Fuck," I growl.

"Is he going off?" Agatha whispers.

"Snow, seriously. What are you—"

“I'm not. It's not that. Fine. I'm fine. I’m going to tea,” I say angrily.

I stomp past both of them, I refuse to look either of them in the eye, and I ignore Agatha as she calls my name. For once, I don’t really care if they are alone together. In fact, any scenario where I'm not with either of them right now is preferable.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Just a myth. I remind myself. A myth. _Fodder for hopeless romantics_ , I tell myself. (Which I'm not. I don't have time to be a hopeless romantic. And clearly Baz doesn't believe it either, the way he spit out the words like it was something pathetic. No. Stop thinking about how he said _anything_ ).

I remember what I was thinking about when I cast the spell.

Or more accurately, _who_ I was thinking about.


	20. Year Seven: The Breakup

**Year Seven: Early June**

**SIMON**

I’ve never been more grateful Baz belongs to some posh family that whisks him away on weekends for surprise mini holidays. I can’t remember where he said he was going. Prague maybe? Anyway, it means I can use the room for the next 48 hours for all my wallowing in self-pity needs without being disturbed.

Agatha broke up with me.

I saw it coming, really, when I think about it.

How do you recover a relationship like ours? Where there is a serious lack of intimacy, that neither person seems overly bothered about, and where one person is constantly almost dying. Not to mention the fact that I'm just a crap boyfriend in general. It doesn't recover. That's how. It ends. Another good thing. Gone.

She was nice about it, honestly. I’m not mad at her either. How could I be? Everything was my fault.

We haven’t done anything more than quick kisses in months. I’ve been afraid, in case _it_ happens again (or _doesn’t_ happen again). I always assumed I would have more time. That after Watford and the Humdrum things would be different. That we could be different. I don’t know. If I think about it my lungs get heavy and I worry there is something seriously wrong with me.

I throw my book bag on the floor and head straight for Baz’s wardrobe. I grin as I open the doors. He would be pissed if he knew I was touching his stuff. Something about it thrills me endlessly.

“Baz, I’m touching your jumpers!” I say to the empty room, my hands running gently over the rich fabric of his clothes.

I laugh.

I’m feeling half-mad, a bit undone, and all over the map in terms of emotion. Sad, but not really sad over Agatha. Free? That sounds harsh, like she was chaining me down. I don’t mean anything bad against her. I really don’t. I don’t know. I feel free in the sense that I don't have to worry about disappointing her. If I die, it won’t hurt her the same way. Something about that helps.

There is also the puzzling fact that as Agatha was breaking up with me I was thinking: “I wonder how Baz will react.”

Which, I don’t even know what emotion that is—not that it is an emotion, but I mean, why was I thinking about that? I think that’s just me being a fucking idiot. Why would I be worrying about Baz’s reaction? I should have been trying to make an argument to stay together.

But, I didn’t. I didn't feel a single urge to do so, even though I don't think I wanted to break up.

Did I?

Maybe. But, this is okay too. Good even. I mean, I know I don't want to lose her. Agatha _is_ important to me. I love her. But... I think I'm okay _not_ being her boyfriend.

I don't know.

Like I said, half-fucking-mad.

I carefully push aside the suits hanging in Baz’s closet (he actually has multiple suits here, for Merlin knows what). I reach deeper into the wardrobe. I know what I’m looking for. I know what will help me sort through my tirelessly swirling brain.

My fingers close around a leather book, and I pull it out before I can remind myself this is definitely not what I'm snooping for. Not that I am snooping. Does it count as snooping if you know what you are looking for? Well, I guess now I'm snooping.

I carefully study the front cover. It's a gorgeous book, of course, made of soft brown leather. I look for a title, but the cover is blank. Not surprising. It's probably some rare, expensive, first edition of something in Latin. I check the inside cover, but it's blank too, a thick cream page starts on the right side. I turn the next page slowly and see familiar, elegant, looping handwriting. Oh....Fuck. I drop the book, quickly, like it's been magicked. Which, I mean, fuck, it probably has. Baz likely has a ward on it, or some silent alarm going off, and he'll know I touched it.

Fuck. I had no idea. I didn't know Baz Pitch would keep a bloody fucking journal in his fucking wardrobe.

I stare at the journal, waiting for it to explode, or my hand to turn to stone, or something. There is no way Baz left it unprotected.

I frown after several minutes when nothing happens. Merlin, he's a fucking mystery. I shake my head and then carefully pick it back up. The pages are thick, and the entire book crinkles in my hands, like he has things stuffed inside the pages. I'm more than tempted to look, but Baz would never forgive me if I did.

I notice there is an obvious break in the pages towards the end, like something rather thick is shoved between the pages. No, I remind myself. I place the journal back in Baz's wardrobe, hopefully in the right spot. Not that it matters. He'll know. He always knows.

I feel another emotion I'm not ready to deal with fight its way into my stomach. This is why I need alcohol, and I know Baz has a bottle hidden in his wardrobe. I was in the room when he was unpacking after Christmas. He tried to sneak it past me, but I noticed. He thinks I never notice anything.

He should have hid it better if he didn’t want me to find it.

He should stop fucking underestimating me.

I can't help but smile when my fingers tap against cool glass. 

I don't pretend I can read the label. It's something brown, scotch? Seems like something Baz would drink. I twist off the top and sniff the bottle. I’ve never had scotch before. Or much alcohol at all. Only a few piss warm beers in the summers at the homes, and champagne at the Wellbelove’s.

It doesn't smell promising. I take a deep breath and take a massive swig, which is a disastrous choice. I spit half my mouthful down my shirt.

“Fuck,” I hiss.

It’s disgusting, but I drink it anyway. I keep drinking until I stop thinking about Agatha, and Baz, and my defected heart not feeling what it should.

\---

I frown, and sit up on my bed.

I can't stop thinking about the journal.

I shouldn't.

I know I shouldn't.

I tip toe over to the wardrobe, even though I'm alone, and open the doors. My fingers reach automatically for the the leather spine. I inhale, and then delicately slip my index finger between the pages with the biggest space between them. I tell myself not to read anything. I only want to see what is stuck between the pages.

My heart is beating hard, and my breathing is heavy.

When I look down at the open pages I inhale sharply, my magic bursting at my fingers. I can smell smoke, and my brain fogs. I start to feel dizzy as every muscle inside me trembles. I take another deep inhale. I need to think through this logically. I need to calm down, before I go off.

I picture Baz, his slender fingers brushing these exact pages. His fingers that always seem to make my skin burn when they touch me. I think of his dark hair, and how I've always wondered how it would feel between my hands.

I take deep inhales, and then I put the journal back.

I keep my promise. I don't read anything.

Would I want to know?

What if he wrote he hates me?

Would I want to read that?

He must hate me.

But what if... he doesn't.

He kept it. The daisy. The one I made that day in the clearing. It was pressed between the pages with a vinegar crisp packet. Is that what he does at night? I knew about the crisps, but does he write while he eats? The thought spreads a warmth through my stomach. I like picturing him writing, tapping the edge of his pen to his lips, reaching for another crisp whilst he thinks. It's a nice image.

I shake my head. Too much alcohol.

This doesn't mean anything. Baz isn't this careless. He's deliberate in everything he does. It's likely a trick. He probably wanted me to find it, so he can humiliate me. Yeah. That's it. I need to be careful. I can't assume anything. I can't assume it means Baz is... into... me?  Because he's not. This is what he wants me to think. Because he knows it will mess with me. That's why he left the journal somewhere I could find it. That's why he kept the daisy.

I take off my trousers, my jumper, and laugh to myself as I get ready for bed. I'm seriously going mad. Of course Baz doesn't like me. Of course not. Stupid. I can be so utterly stupid sometimes. I narrow my eyes at my reflection in the mirror above the sink as I brush my teeth. Of course he doesn't. Look at me. He wouldn't. He _couldn't_ be interested in someone like me.

I touch my cross, nestled above my breastbone, barely noticeable among all the marks across my skin. Why would he want this? Me? Why? I frown, and nervously run my fingers over the smoothest part of the cross. The first day I wore it I thought for sure Baz was about to admit what he was. I know it irritates him. The thought used to make me happy, but now I wonder how it feels for him? Does it hurt? I don't want to hurt him. Not really. Not ever.

I can't stop seeing a single white daisy pressed between cream coloured pages.

He kept it.

And I can't help but think even Baz wouldn't go through the trouble unless...

I yank the chain around my neck and let my cross drop into the bin.

 


End file.
